


Don't Know About The People

by MaggieWilde8



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Canon - Comics, Drug Addiction, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fear, Horror, Manipulative Relationship, Psychological Horror, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-11-19 01:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11302743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggieWilde8/pseuds/MaggieWilde8
Summary: Art student Grace Gilmartin has Jonathan Crane for a housemate while at university. She thought he was just a rude git at first. *On Hiatus.*





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story 4 years ago. As all you fellow writers will know, writing skills constantly change. I re-read this recently and I cringed a bit. So I am re-writing it and will upload chapters regularly. I'm putting it on here because I still love this story (usually I loathe anything of mine that's over a year old) and I adore this website more than fanfic.net. 
> 
> This is slightly AU/canon divergent.  
> Feston and its university is entirely fictional.
> 
> There are many references to Scarecrow from several comics within this story and I would like to iterate that they belong to the respected authors and publishers etc.  
> Detective Comics Absolute Terror #503 #573 #835 & #836  
> World’s Finest #3 “The Riddle of the Human Scarecrow”  
> Batman Year One: Scarecrow #1 & #2  
> 'The Shadow of the Bat' (Knightfall Arc) #16 #17 #18  
> Some background information from Batman and Psychology: A Dark and Stormy Knight by Travis Langley.  
> 

Approaching my village:

Don't know about the people,   
but all the scarecrows  
are crooked. 

_Kobayashi Issa_

* * *

**Prologue**  
  
It was a hot summer that year.  
  
The kind of summer that made the backs of clothes stick liberally to perspiring skin. The way sweat rolled slowly down a single temple, fusing with damp hair. How the air fizzled with heat and insects chirruped loudly in the midst of dense grassland. It was night. The girl could feel in-between her fingers dew from the grass. She lay there stunned, half hanging out of her car, with her right hand on the damp grass. It was difficult to remember amidst the accident what _exactly_ had taken place. It was difficult to remember one minute she'd been driving seventy to eighty miles an hour down the road. She felt a terrible pain in her head, and tried to move a hand to staunch the pain. She smelt smoke, a fiery smell that made her eyes water, her lungs clog up. She tried to move her limbs. Slowly, it came back to her as she moved painfully. Shock seemed to have numbed her body.  
  
There was broken glass everywhere, and she was quite sure tiny little specks of it were embedded in her face. She ignored the pain that burst from her limbs as she dragged herself upwards. There was glass in her arms and thighs as she dragged herself out of the car onto the wet grass. She felt boneless. She tried reminding herself of _who_ she was. The perspective of the night changed. The circumstances had altered drastically, more than she could ever imagine. There was a strange smell coming from the engine of the vehicle that was beside her. It was upturned, its great mechanical belly facing the starry sky. It felt fresh and cool underneath her body. About ten yards away was a battered black car, its fog lights still on. The headlights had been mashed inwards, puckered in like a mouth sucking on a sour lemon. The lights were bright in her eyes, but she began to realise what had happened. The air smelt of burnt grass and petrol.   
  
From the car behind, a figure opened the door that creaked on its hinges. It door fell off with a loud clatter as the figure stumbled out. Tall and lanky was the figure that fell to the ground briefly, breathing loudly. The breathing was muffled, as if the mouth was covered by something. She squinted at the bright light, seeing the tall figure unfurl itself. She saw around what was supposed to the figure's head a sort of sack shape. She panicked, and scrabbled at the grass in order to get up. The grass gave way beneath her and dirt buried itself in-between her nails. The figure, a man whom she knew, had gathered his bearings and tore straight after her. She finally managed to get herself up, heart in mouth. She began to run, faster than she had ever run in her life. He was close behind her, calling her name. She kept going, before slamming straight into the ground at full force. She had pieces of grass in her mouth and dirt in her nose.  The night was smoke ridden and cruel. 

Words came to her; _No coward soul is mine._


	2. Uncomfortable Truths

Every morning Grace Gilmartin goes for a run.

At first she'd really have to push herself out of bed, despite its protests. She'd do it before breakfast, when the air was still crisp with the night air and the songs of blackbirds drifted throughout the streets. She felt uncomfortable at first. Old, baggy sweatpants, rolled up to her knees to run in. Her somewhat stringy, greasy hair tied back in a ponytail. Swish, swish, swish it went behind her head as she pounded down the pavement. She did a little loop around the area and by the time she started turning back, more traffic lined the streets. People glanced at her, curiously, out of habit. She felt her cheeks sting crimson with the exercise. She felt like walking the rest of the way home, wanting to escape back to the comfy recesses of her bed. That was how it started.  
  
_My plan to get better. To do better, to feel better._    
  
To wake up fresh and clean with purpose - although she felt like lying in bed all day like she used to. She jogged every morning, except for the weekends, where she'd lie in later. Sometimes she did it just to get out of the house away from her parents. Her mum was catholic, and usually expected her at church on a Sunday. She had graduated from university a year and half ago, and since then had a series of jobs in retail, waitressing and cleaning. At the present moment, her jogging and painting was what kept her grounded. Her painting wasn't as good as it used to be. She saw her parents' house come slowly into view as she kept jogging, even if her thighs were burning and her face felt as red as a beetroot. Her parents' house had a detached house in Surrey, on a quiet avenue with oak trees that lined the large road. The neighbourhood was wealthy. It was conservative. She'd never been happy in Surrey; her accent was out of place. Surrey was closer to her mum's family, and her dad was happy to comply with his new job being in London. Grace finally stopped in front of the house, sighing loudly. Her house was on a quiet little avenue. She stopped her music, gazing at her house, loving and loathing it simultaneously. The strands of her hair were plastered around her face. The music was still drifting through her ears via her music player. 

She had to tell them. Holding it in for any longer would make her burst. Her parents knew absolutely nothing about her and what she'd done. She had spent the last five years pretending to be two people at once; the quiet, studious, creative girl to her parents, and the funny, laid-back druggie girl to her 'friends' at university. She drank until she woke up with various cuts, bruises on her body, until she had lost her phone and woke up in an unfamiliar bedroom. She smoked variously, until her pockets were stuffed with empty filter packets, and her purse was empty. She injected heroin until the veins in her right arm died. She missed her exams in the second year, having to pay fifty pounds to re-sit it. That was because paramedics were reviving her on the bathroom floor, after an accidental overdose. She'd miss out telling them about the public vandalism, the various drunken one-night stands and the fact that she missed an exam since she'd overdosed in the bathroom. All they knew she had her heart broken and that sometimes she phoned up in tears because she was 'stressed' and 'lonely.'  
  
Her mum would only ask her to be strong, tell her she was beautiful and that she had lots of friends. For the past year, she'd drifted away from her uni friends who turned out to not really be friends at all. Friends who she thought she could trust, had drifted away, like plywood at sea. She thought of them as self-indulgent, but realised she was just the same at uni. The trouble was, she was terribly lonely. A girl who who couldn't find a place to fit in anymore. She had once succumbed to the need to fit in, the fear of being ostracised if she did not. The only time she was herself, properly, was when she was painting. The drugs eventually forced her to an ultimatum in her third year of study. Since then, the process of giving up has been slow and arduous for her. The temptation was always there. And the psychological fallout was much worse than the physical. Giving up was in various stages. She went cold turkey at first. After a while she went to a rehabilitation centre. It had been the worse three years of her life.Her paintings were often entered on death and horror during that time. Yet she managed to pass her degree. How she did so, she'd never know. Her neighbour Mrs Torrington was walking her small dog, a large gold brooch on the lapel of her woollen coat. Her peroxide blonde hair was brighter than usual today. 

"Hello Gracie," she said smiling tautly, continuing to walk on.

 _I have to tell them today_ , Grace thought idly glancing at Mrs Torrington's yappy dog. _Tell them before you go back to university again._  She would go back up north, where this university was, near York, where she originally lived until twelve.  She slipped the earphones out of her ears as she entered the hallway. Grace was instantly greeted by the smell of fresh bread. Her mum had her back turned in the kitchen, and she was kneading some dough. The girl's eyes drifted towards the already baking piece of bread in the oven. Her palms were sweaty, clammy, and a large knot formed in her stomach.

"Good run?" her mum said, having heard the door around five minutes ago.

Her daughter was oddly silent; every time she came back from a jog she was usually, and quite terribly, out of breath. She nearly jumped in fright when the dog burst through the back door, tongue hanging out, golden fur soaking. It suddenly began raining very hard, and the washing was outside. Her mum sighed, slapping her hands together, the flour puffing into the air.

"Help me get the washing in?"

Grace liked to think she had a good relationship with her mum, but now she was going to completely and utterly ruin it, which brought tears to her eyes. The back of her throat burned with her unshed tears; she hadn't had a good cry in about three years. Her mum wore a checked shirt over ripped jeans, along with printed wellies on her feet. She felt a huge sweep of affection for her mum; she was going to hurt them by telling them about this. Her mum frowned a little, seeing the girl become teary-eyed. 

"You alright, pet?"

She burst into tears. Her mum was so shocked she stood there gaping for half a minute. It had been quite a while since she last saw her daughter cry.

"Gracie?"

"I'm...I don't know what to say," her daughter spoke through her crying. 

Her mum felt a little embarrassed. Her twenty-five year old who had been coping with herself away from home was crying like a child. She didn't move forward to embrace her, confused, perhaps a little frightened.

"I'm moving up to Feston to study postgraduate art…" she trembled.

"Well, that's wonderful news! A bit late to be telling me, but that's…great…"

Her mum was frowning deeply, her lips pressed together, looking as if she was sucking a lemon. She had the feeling that what she was going to hear now would not please her in the slightest. Was she pregnant? Her daughter ran a hand through her lanky, greasy hair, and she clutched at her music player tightly, for dear life, praying for courage.

"Mum...I had a heroin addiction at uni...I never wanted to tell you and dad but I couldn't keep it hidden forever." There was a pin-drop silence, as the girl predicted. There was a pin-drop silence; there was only the sound of the oven whirring. Her mum's face was indescribable. The dog ran through the room. The girl began to cry when she saw her mum had turned back round to the dough. Grace stood there in shock, her lip quivering, repeating 'Mum' over again, desperately waiting for a response. She touched her mother's shoulder, which was shaking slightly.

"Mum?"

"The sooner you go away to do your degree the better," her mum sniffled, but she sounded like she was about to breathe fire.

"I coped all by myself, and now I'm better. Wouldn't you rather know now?" Her mum span back around, her eyes flaming.

"That's not  _the point_! The point is the fact that you are not the girl I've known for twenty-four years! What else do you need to tell me? That you're addicted to nicotine and alcohol as well? Slept with a dozen men? You're pregnant? Have an STD?"

The girl turned her head away, becoming angry, but her face reddened. She had done exactly all those things, although three one-night stands wasn't exactly 'a dozen boys.' It was her saving grace she hadn't become pregnant or caught a sexually transmitted disease. 

"You deserve to know the real me, mum. I need you to help me." Her mum was quiet for a few minutes. Eventually she murmured she would tell her dad when he came home from work. The girl wiped her tears away angrily with the back of her hand, sniffing harshly. She suddenly hated the back of her mother's head; that dyed hair that looked like straw from all the wear and tear throughout the years. She hated to think of her straight-laced father, who would come home, with his bloody shiny briefcase and smiling brightly. 

"I never expected you to understand, but you have to know…" Grace wept.

Her mum was kneading the bread very hard now, she in fact she had kneaded it too much, and it was becoming unusable.

"Just...I need time to mull this over, Grace. Don't come back until church." She and her mum usually went on a Friday morning, together.  The girl walked over to the door of the kitchen.

"I'm not going, Mum." Her mum sighed loudly, and span back around.

"Please don't argue with me, Grace," she replied. 

"I'm _not_ going. Where was it when I was going through hell?" the girl snapped, having finally lost her temper amid the tears. 

Her mum just stood there, astounded with her own daughter. It was as if she had lost the young girl she had loved so much overnight. But the girl, oddly enough was right. And she wasn't a girl; she was a young woman now. She realised she had no clue about her daughter; only that everything had gone smoothly from school through to university. That she was just an average girl, who fitted into society well, despite her creative ways. The front door closed. Her dad took off his raincoat and hung it up, frowning at his wife and daughter. The girl saw his body sagged in reaction. He'd come early. Being one of the top heads in his department he wasn't often needed on a Friday.

"What's happened?" he asked.   
  
Grace didn't look at him, as she moved quickly upstairs. He called for her name but he was astounded when she didn't reply. She was always so compliant, but this was not the Grace he knew. She locked herself in her room for the rest of the day, and refused dinner and her dad's requests to talk to her. He began talking to her outside the door; _what had happened, why had she upset her mother, why was she acting so ….out of sorts?_ He didn't like disorder that ruptured his daily life. Most of all, he didn't understand emotion, and probably never would or would want to. He kept knocking on her door, until she flung open the door and told him while they sat on the bed. He was aghast and nearly dropped the mug of tea he brought up for her. This act of kindness by her dad reduced her to tears, and she felt the guilt even more so at this point. Her dad, whom she always thought slightly resembled actor Jerry Orbach, just stood there his greying hair catching the light, and for the first time she'd seen, his lower lip trembled.

"I….Gracie I don't believe it…." He put his arm round her for a long time as they stared at the floor. Perhaps the timing had been off. Maybe she should've told them at the time. _Maybe, maybe, maybe._


	3. A Home Away From Home

She was frightened of being alone. She didn't feel frightened anymore.

Grace Gilmartin, twenty-four years of age, stood in front of her suitcase checking she had absolutely everything.

She had one large suitcase and a holdall that was specifically for her art utensils. Leaning against the white wall was her easel. _That would definitely be a pain to carry onto the probably very busy train._ She was taking the main train up north, changing twice before she'd reach Feston, a small town near York. It was seven in the morning, so her dad wouldn't have left for work yet. She managed to find, in a suburban area of Feston, a small three-bedroom terraced house that was looking for two occupants. _Must be a non-smoker and a postgraduate student._ _No pets._  It had a contact number and she'd spoken to the landlord who had the _most_ northern accent she'd ever heard. He didn't take heed of her similar accent, presuming she was local. York originally had been her hometown - she was looking forward to returning home. She noted it was only going to be two occupants in the house, for the landlord could not find another tenant. The shortage of postgraduates this year was astonishing, he'd remarked. Tuition fees, after all, had risen in the last two years.   
  
The landlord didn't tell her who the other student was, only that they were male. She stuffed her mobile away into her saddle bag and picked her things up, having to make a second trip. She placed her things at the front door, ruffling her dog's fur when he came to greet her at the bottom of the staircase. Her mum was in the kitchen, already up and making cakes. Cakes for the annual fair at the church today, a raffle, a competition, karaoke, a service, games….it was all so dreadfully dull, she had often found the people there frustratingly patronising, especially when she was asked about 'what she was doing with her degree.' She shuffled into the kitchen, hitching her saddle bag further onto her shoulder. Her dad was sat at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper spread across the table. She cleared her voice a little awkwardly, causing her dad to casually look up. His face was impassive.

"I'm going now," she spoke, her voice wavering.

Her mum spoke without turning, whipping the cake mixture together with a little more force than necessary.

"See you soon." 

She knew she had to give them time, but it felt so rotten, cold and formal. 

"Good luck for this year, Gracie," was all her dad said.   
  
She felt didn't even know her parents herself. She'd never experienced such detached coldness from them. She held her tears until she got onto the train. Her parents didn't ask what she was doing, how she was getting there. She felt completely drained, unloved and alone. People on the streets gave her curious glances, with her struggling. The easel was giving her the most trouble. Once she got onto the train and towards her allocated seat, which was next to a middle-aged man in a suit, she began crying, uncontrollably. She hadn't cried like this for so long. The man noticed the girl's tears, and five minutes later he moved having been made extremely uncomfortable. Even the ticket man gave her an awkward glance. The train journey was three and a half hours long. Guildford to York, changing at London on the way. After she got off at York, she had to take a bus to Feston, which was around half an hour long.   
  
Her spirits were already further dampened when she had seen her ex-boyfriend in Guildford train station, sipping on a coffee with her ex-friend. She found out around a month after their spilt, her old friend Chloe had started something with him. It had deepened her wounds, seeing them together on that day made her feel more wretched than ever. The taxi driver at the station faffed around, trying to put her easel into the back of the car, and she was forced to ride in the front with him. He was trying to talk to her, asking where she was going with the art easel, making a poor joke about artists. She was hardly listening to him. It was now pouring with rain, so hard that it bounced off the tarmac and concrete pavement. The road that the terraced houses were on seemed a little bleak. The house that she stood in front of _seriously_ needed new paintwork. There were various household appliances that had been dumped outside, probably unusable now because it was raining, and they appeared as if they had been outside for about a month; there was rust growing around the corners of the metal microwave.There was a straw mat outside, infused with damp and mud.  
  
The front bay window had its rather worn looking curtains drawn, the appearance suggesting they'd not been opened for a long time, perhaps a few months. It unnerved her slightly. She was meant to wait for the landlord; he would go through the agreement with her, and she would sign it. He told her she could move in straight away. Her keys were in the kitchen on the table. _Wherever the kitchen was._  After leaning her easel against the wall of the house, the number fifteen barely hanging off the dilapidated wall, she knocked on the door very loudly. Her knuckles thumped with pain afterwards. Her new housemate was supposed to let her in. She just hoped desperately he was there. She knew what students were like, especially that of the male. Still, he was a postgraduate, like she had been told. That was all she knew. She hadn't the chance to get a name. The rain had soaked through her hood, and ran down her face in rivets. She blinked the water out her eyes painfully, spotting a doorbell and pressed it a couple of times. No doubt the guy would be in bed. She had to make generalisations. From what she'd experienced, the student male clan seemed to have the same mindset, bright or not, lazy or not, rich or not.   
  
Grace heard vague booming music in the distance, down the street, which she couldn't make out. Her hands were hardening on her suitcase handle, the holdall's strap was cutting into her shoulder, despite her thick woollen coat. She was moving her lips, murmuring, open the flipping door. She rang the bell four times, now indifferent to first impressions. She felt, slowly, the tears well back up. She was all alone, little Grace Gilmartin, with no friends and with now an estranged family. She impatiently rapped harder on the door, shouting a 'Hello' as loudly as she could. There was no sound; it was just pure silence, apart from the traffic in the distance and the splatter of rain. Growing impatient, she noticed the front window of the house was slightly open. It was a vertical oblong in shape, and opened inwards from below. She wasted no time, her patience snapping finally. She wasn't going to be the victim in all this, especially after this tiresome day. Thankfully it opened inwards enough so she could slip inside, the musty-smelling curtain (just as she suspected) brushing over her head. It was terribly dark inside, and her foot caught on the ledge of the window sill. She tumbled to the ground, catching her knees on the worn carpet. Her right knee throbbed in pain. The house smelt musty and damp.

"Christ, smells like something's  _died_ in here," she muttered, brushing bits of lint from her knees.

She felt around in the dark, until she touched the cold metal of a door handle. It led out into a tiny hallway, which was also dark.

Seeing the painted glass of the front door, she twisted the lock, and flung open the door, rushing out to grab her things.  _I could have been a burglar, would have been so easy. Clearly this guy is a very inexperienced student. Or just arrogant. Or naïve-_

"Who the hell are you?" suddenly came a sharp, raspy voice from the end of the tiny hallway.

A door had opened, flooding light in, and she could see beyond the figure, a patio door and a small kitchen. She wasn't really interested in the figure; quite frankly she was pissed off. Soup was being cooked, she sensed.

Grace let her suitcase drop and shook her damp hair irritably.

"Your new housemate, pal, and apparently you're deaf as a post."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surrey is a county near London and York is a city in North Yorkshire, north England. Fictional Feston is near York.


	4. Hostile Beginnings

* * *

 

The figure abruptly turned around, letting the door slam behind him. She gawked at the now shut door, not quite believing his rudeness. Not allowing this to faze her, she brought her easel into the hallway. The hallway was modest yet cramped. She turned on the light, via the light switch next to her throwing the place into ungodly light. She could see every crack and crevice, which was covered in dust. Ahead of her, a steep carpeted staircase, which looked like it hadn't been hoovered for….God knows how long. She began muttering to herself…. _back to the bloody first year of my undergrad degree._ _People who don't know how to look after themselves and standard personal hygiene_. The kitchen door rapidly flung back open, emitting a slight gasp from her. The figure, who was lanky and bespectacled, propped the door open for her but remained quiet. The dirtiness of the house and the discourtesy of her new housemate did not faze her in the slightest. Any other person would be discouraged or wary, but she strolled into the kitchen, whipping off her scarf and dumping it on the kitchen chair as if she had been there for months already. The tiny kitchen was tiled; and the kitchen units made out of plastic, made to look like black granite. It was all finished off quite cheaply. There was another flat below them, with a rotting shed and an un-cut lawn below. All they had was a balcony, with a single rubbish bin and mop bucket. The grass in the garden below probably housed snakes. She tried to work out if mice and rats were included; probably in this grubby house, she surmised. Grace realised she'd been staring and observing far too much, and for far too long without having spoken to the guy. But it hardly mattered, as he'd been rude. He startled her out of her thoughts.

"Your keys are on the table," he said, his back turned to her. He was lanky and thin as a rail, dressed in grey woollen trousers and a jumper with several holes in the arm. He was stirring a funny-smelling broth in a large saucepan on the gas stove. He'd spoken very quickly, but she could detect an American accent in his raspy voice. He sounded like he hadn't talked in months. Either that or he was a very heavy smoker.

"Didn't you hear the door go?" she replied. He still didn't turn around. Grace was growing impatient and whipped the keys up, jangling them to get his attention. When that failed, she leaned against the sink and craned her neck to get him to look at her. He had spidery, long fingers, she noted, as she watched him stir his 'soup'. He reached across towards the right of him, for the salt and pepper. His movements were lithe and quick. Had a touch of impatience to them.

"Barely. I was detained upstairs," he replied. She raised an eyebrow at him. 

"Mind showing me where my room is?" she tested lightly, watching his face. He definitely wasn't her age, she decided. Perhaps he was a lecturer?  _Explains the sour mood,_ she thought.   
  
"Grace Gilmartin, by the way." It was half a minute before he turned around, and faced her directly. He had unfriendly, glassy eyes beneath rounded wire-framed glasses. His face was angular and gaunt-looking. She felt like she had been turned to stone, feeling like perhaps his thinness was not due to student savings on food.

"Up the stairs, second door on the right. All the rooms are upstairs. You are next to me. The third door is the bathroom. The key to your room is the same you have just picked up." She swallowed, nodding slowly, but pulled out a goofy smile. He was the most aloof American she'd ever come across. Her previous university had been full of them, but they had all been so wonderfully affable. _Still, one most soldier on_ , she thought. _Perhaps he's really shy._

"Brilliant! I might need some help with my easel – pretty heavy and those stairs look tricky…" He just stared at her as if she landed from a different solar system. He blinked only once, then cleared his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing a little. His hard gaze washed over her like tidal wave, leaving her with a feeling of despoilment.

"Jonathan Crane." He put out a hand, and hesitantly, but still smiling somewhat, she shook it. His handshake was surprisingly strong, and she noticed how his fingernails dug into her skin somewhat. His nose wrinkled when he touched her, and she immediately sensed something. He disliked her already. He told her she could leave the easel down here, just as long she didn't get paint everywhere. She finally snapped, pausing at the door.

"Since when do you care about how clean the place is?" She left him to stew as she hauled her two bags up to her room. She didn't analyse the bedroom. She simply threw her bags down and flopped onto her bed, which already had a duvet and pillows without their covers. The room was freezing. She felt her tears slip out, until they rolled into her ears, making them pop. Her nose became blocked. She began to sob, and as the sun set, she felt her eyes close.

* * *

It was very dark when she woke up, and the night felt very bleak. The streetlamps from outside, beyond the garden and onto another street shone in through a chink in her curtains, casting an orangey glow in the room. She briefly forgot where she was and what happened in her life. Then it came crashing down like a ton of bricks upon her, crushing the breath out of her lungs, and she sucked in a pained, tired breath. The parents. The confession. The crumbling smelly house. The uncouth, strange housemate. Her utter loneliness. She began shivering, for the house still retained its coldness, furthered by the night. It was only September, but this year had been very cold, and it was going to become colder ever so. The only thing Grace could do, to rid herself of the intense loneliness she was feeling was to unpack everything. She did it at a slow rate, humming a tune and plugged her little vintage style analogue radio into the socket beside her bed. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, when she'd woken. It was the best feature of the house so far, apart from the fact that she had a large window that reached from top to bottom of her wall. She just hoped it was a good view. There was a large oak wardrobe in the corner beside the window, and in the other corner a little bookshelf. Her bed was beside the window, tucked in a little corner.

Sick of the radio, she pulled out her little netbook and started to play music once the tiny computer was started up. Her mind drifted to that of her old life, back in her first university. How those friends eventually drifted away from her, no matter how hard she had tried to pull them back, with the tips of her fingers. They had been like sand running through thin fingers. She was disappointed to find, that people in general did not bother. She only had to count on herself. Her mind drifted back to her ex-boyfriend and her ex-friend, Chloe, who had eloped with Charlie after a month of splitting with her. Grace shook her head hard. _Why on earth was she bringing up these painful memories?_ Was it become she was now so completely utterly alone, with her pathetic thoughts, and no family, a rather odd housemate in a dank house? She felt like her chest was a birdcage and the bird that was once squawking and shrieking to be let out, pecking at the bars of the cage, now had died its decomposing body on the floor.

* * *

He could hear her, upstairs. _Clear as a bell._ He was stood in the kitchen; glass in one hand, pills in the other. Plain white pills rested in the palm of his hand. It was incredibly dark outside for five o' clock. Winter was approaching, and it was approaching early. The bright light in the kitchen reflected off the painted yellow walls giving the room an ugly tone. He could hear her, her feet banging on the thin floorboards. _What was she doing?_ He tipped the pills into his mouth with ease and swallowed them down with the glass of water, gulping until it was all gone. She was being incredibly noisy. He could sense his irritation growing, but tried to calm it. Perhaps if he went up there and told her to stop it. He needed to tell her about the room upstairs, in the attic. He had to tell her about the certain house rules. Wiping his palms on his trouser legs, he exited the kitchen, walked through the hallway, and ascended the stairs. He craned his head up, stretching to hear the noise as he heard the tuneful sound of a guitar twanging. He felt apprehensive but before he could even think about knocking on her door, she'd flung it open, the music momentarily becoming louder; then it was shut off as the fire door of her room closed with a slam. He halted stiffly on the stairs, staring at her. She didn't happen to see him at first, plodding along the hallway, down a couple of steps, and then turned towards the top of the stairs, halting as she saw him.

"Oh…hi," she spoke, her voice strangely high, as if she'd recently been crying. He double-checked and saw that there was no blotchiness around her eyes. She moved automatically out of the way and made for him to pass her to enter his room, but he didn't move. She raised her eyebrows, irking him slightly, her arms crossed as she waited for him to respond. However, he didn't, just staring at her, making her feel extremely uncomfortable. She was forced to speak.

"Did the landlord come over? I dropped off in my room," she said softly. He shook his head, clearing his throat.

"No, he didn't. He is like that. So I thought I'd just tell you about the house to fill you in."  
  
She seemed rather bored at his statement, and spoke no further. _Thankfully_ , he thought -  her accent was very strong. He'd heard nothing like it before but they all seemed to talk like that around here. He was at an established university, yet the town's occupants talked hillbilly style. He wasn't sure what the Brit alternative term was. It was incredible how quickly he gained a new housemate. He wasn't expecting any one to move in with him and made sure it stayed that way. It was a week before the semester started, and no one had really shown an interest in the house apart from a couple of people back at the start of the year, who were repulsed and scared off by his rude behaviour. He did not want anyone living with him. They had all been undergraduates anyway. So he specified to the landlord to advertise the house only mentioning postgraduates. The girl in front of him was anything but special as he quickly analysed her. She had dark eyes framed by arched eyebrows, a small mean mouth and lifeless shoulder-length, mousy hair.  Her voice was quite deep for a woman, but it was a voice that smoked too many cigarettes over the years. She had soft, suede-like boots under her jeans and wore a tattered woollen coat, with large hoops that dangled from her ears. _What did she look like? Ah, yes_ , the foreign word coming to him, one that he'd heard since he'd been here. _Chavvy_. _Common_. _Not someone he'd like._  Shaking the image from his mind, he pulled his gaze away, realising he'd been staring at her. She'd been waiting for him to say something, bemused by his peculiar behaviour.

"Take a picture…" she said sarcastically, but he cut her off immediately. 

"The landlord said the attic room upstairs is off limits. There are hardly any floorboards up there, so if you want to avoid a nasty accident, just don't go looking for it…" She raised those arched eyebrows again. "I tend to study quite late, at least until two o' clock in the morning, so please keep the music low, at least by nine. I have eight o'clock seminars on Thursday and Friday so try not to make too much noise, especially on Thursday night." He could tell she was losing her patience, a little dimple had formed in her cheek, and he could tell she was grinding her teeth, ever so slowly.

"What's special about Thursday?" she enquired, keeping her voice sweet. He blinked a couple of times.

"Well, students tend to go out....on that night," he said, matter-of-factly. She scoffed at him, pushing past, and started to go down the stairs.

"I don't think you'll find I'm that kind of girl," she spoke, feet slamming down on each step. "Not any more…" She had muttered the last part, but he had ears of a bat. He watched her leave the house, the front door slamming as hard as it possibly could. _I wonder what kind of girl you are then,_ he thought.

* * *

She'd soon finished her shopping in Tescos. The trip consisted of pushing past people somewhat tiredly with her trolley, becoming agitated quickly when she couldn't find what she wanted. She hated food shopping with a sincere passion. After a while, her frustration became misery, once her tiresome mind reminded her that she was _utterly_ alone and that the future looked as uninviting as a high, dark mountain that was impossible to climb. The darkness outside, highlighting some of the town's lights, emphasised the inescapable sadness. She wondered if her mum was thinking about her, her mum whom she'd always been close to. Catching a taxi back, feeling the light patter of rain again as she exited the vehicle and struggled with her food bags to the dank terraced house, which was her new home, she ran a bath as soon as she stepped inside. It was her method of healing. A bath. Ignoring the grubbiness of the room, the grit that sat in-between the tiles, the dirt that clung to the plumbing pipes and the cobwebs scattered around the ceiling, she poured in a new bottle of bubble bath, and sat on the toilet, waiting patiently. It took a while to fill. Not bothering to wonder whether her strange housemate was in, she went downstairs to make herself a cup of tea and grab some chocolate. Despite the dirtiness of the house, everything seemed to be immaculate; everything was in _order_. She opened up the cupboards and found the crockery all stacked up neatly. She began to put some of her food away, briefly looking in his cupboard seeing whatever little was in there, was also neatly stacked. Briefly looking around, she put quickly put everything that was his upside down.   
  
She shut the cupboard as soon as she heard a slam of a door, smirking a little to herself. Seeing it was just next door, she re-arranged everything in the cupboards as well. Grace wasn't even sure why she was doing this. Antagonising her new, rude housemate certainly wasn't a wise move. When she heard the front door slam, she managed to stifle a chuckle. However, the voice did not belong to the guy; it belonged to a young woman, around her age. Curious, she moved closer to the door, trying to listen in, but all the noise the woman was making was just inane chatter. Pouring milk slowly into her tea, adding the lovely large amount she was used to, she heard footsteps. She felt a small cruel jump of joy in her stomach, knowing he was going to find his little neat heaven ruined. _Devastated. A catastrophe._ Grace was beside the fridge when the young woman stepped in, her eyes wide, taking in the smallness of the kitchen. She had very large eyes and her dirty blonde hair hung down in wisps. Grace almost felt like being rude - but she stopped herself.  _You're starting over. Stop being so childish. Clean slate, remember?_ As she turned around properly to greet them, she was suddenly caught in the sharp gaze of Jonathan Crane, who had to stoop slightly in the doorway. Her tea was scorching hot in her hands. 

"Alright," she greeted them, trying to pull what resembled a cheery smile. 

"You must be the new housemate," replied the woman, an American accent distinct. _Thrown in the deep end, were you Crane_ , she thought sarcastically. _Needed a bit of home to get you fitted in?_. Crane was just staring at her, making her feel a tiny bit awkward. 

"Yep. I'm Grace," she returned, smiling sheepishly under their gazes. Grace felt her awkwardness drop for a while, realising she felt like being rude to the woman because of the man behind her. She wasn't even sure how old he was. Mid to late thirties? 

"I'm Dina. I'm a PhD student," she said, trying to dispel the awkwardness. It didn't work. Grace swirled the tea in her hands, desperate for her bath and chocolate. 

"And you?" she asked him stiffly, trying to seem interested. He replied directly, without a bat of an eyelash.

"PhD student also. Psychology and chemistry," was his haughty reply. She raised an eyebrow. 

"That's an unusual mix," she replied, hoping to dispel the awkwardness, but it wasn't going away. 

"Not at all," he replied cooly. "One of the most important aspects of psychology. Our brains are chemical. Dopamine, serotonin and norepinephrine for example are three important chemicals that affect our behaviour and mood."

"Serotonin," repeated Grace out loud, smiling. "My doctor once said eating chocolate literally boosts serotonin levels...."

"The ingredient tryptophan," finished Crane for her, although his voice was cold. "The effects, unfortunately, are short-lived."  _Unfortunately,_ thought Grace. Suddenly she felt a little inadequate, and wasn't sure why she was afraid to say what she was studying. Dina already asked the dreaded question before Grace could finish her anxious thoughts.

"Um, I'm a Master's student. Doing, er, fine art." 

"Oh wow, complete opposite!" exclaimed Dina, smiling again, rather attractive dimples showing in her cheeks. "There's plenty of psychology in art, wouldn't you agree?" She said, turning to look at Crane. His interest seemed piqued, but only slightly.

"What type of art do you do, may I ask?" he asked Grace, chilling eyes rooting her to the spot. "I myself find the work of Francis Bacon fascinating." Momentarily she was impressed by his knowledge. 

"I used to experiment with ideas like that....Now I'm more Monet. Landscapes, particularly natural ones. Seems calmer, safer," she said, briefly carried away by her enthusiasm. They both bid their goodbyes, before turning off and she could hear a door slam. There was a lot of door slamming in the house. Grace stood there for a minute, her mouth open, the mug and chocolate bar still in her hands. It was going to be an interesting semester. _Little did she know._


	5. Down to Earth

The first art class was at nine o' clock in the morning.

She was looking forward to opening her oil paint bottles and sniffing linseed oil. Pick the dried paint from the brush bristles. Wipe her hands on her little apron, and paint away until the daylight changed and moved and she couldn't concentrate anymore. She wondered what the art studio would look like. It was a very early art class and they lasted two hours, three days of the week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday at all different times of the day. A typical student's week. She thought about getting a job. She could never find one in her undergraduate days, and she always had the money she earned during summer to help her. Sometimes her parents would keep her afloat, but she never liked them to help her out too much. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically, but the insistent banging she heard two doors away down the small corridor had kept her awake. It sounded like they were at it, but she couldn't tell. She thought she heard screaming - the most vocal sex she'd ever heard, certainly reaching number one. She only smoked when particularly stressed, and this certainly was a stressful situation. She also hoped he smelt it. _The twat._ The noise simply wouldn't cease - the screaming was beginning to freak her out. Sighing loudly, Grace padded down the hallway in her bare feet, oversized t-shirt and pyjama shorts, her fag hanging out her mouth.She stood outside his door for a second, hearing the girl's groans. She couldn't hear him at all, wondering if he was even there.   _What on earth was going on in there_ , she wondered.

Was he sacrificing her? Was she having a séance, and became demonically possessed?

"Oh for Christ's sake," Grace murmured, taking the cigarette out her mouth and suddenly pounded on the door very hard, her hand thumping in pain once she took it away. The noises ceased for a moment.

"OI! Could you keep the primeval noises to a minimum? Any more and the zoo keeper will be around. I've got a nine-am in the _fucking_ morning!"

She turned away, taking a drag of her cigarette, blowing out, feeling sufficiently satisfied, her demons vanishing momentarily. The noise had not continued, and she managed to get another few hours of peaceful sleep before her radio went off, blasting music in the room.

* * *

 

Brushing the little knots out of her hair, seeing the circles under her eyes, Grace prepared herself for the day ahead. She ended up having a terrible dream about her addiction, which already made her feel like she'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed. At around eight o' clock, she had her breakfast and packed her art utensils in her holdall. She rather hoped she would not bump into either Crane or Dina this morning, doubting they'd be up. She's probably _recovering_ , she mused sarcastically. However, Grace could not be more wrong. Apparently her housemate was an early riser for he was making coffee when she entered the kitchen at half seven, the cold tiles of the kitchen bringing her into reality. He was tapping his long fingers on the surface, his back to her the kettle boiling when she entered, clad only in her shorts and over-sized t-shirt, stifling a yawn. He was dressed in a thick navy dressing gown, and his hair was a little muzzy. She cluttered about around him, yawning properly this time. He still didn't turn around and he nearly made her jump when he did. He was extremely tall, a height she guessed might've peaked at six foot three. She poured corn flakes into her ceramic blue bowl, picking out a flake and munching on it hungrily. His face was quite impassive as he stood there clutching his steaming mug of coffee.

"Good _Morning_ ," she said to him cheerily, although she was far from cheery. "Sounds like you had a _really_ good night's sleep." She felt his stare pierce her as she made her breakfast, like a pin to a balloon.

"You know, and it stated  _clearly,_ that there was to be no smoking in the house," he said calmly, but somehow she sensed the threat beneath the words.

"And if there could be such a thing as 'house rules', perhaps loud sex at three in the morning would be abolished."

His cold eyes, for the briefest moment flickered and she snorted, shaking her head. She really felt like antagonising him today, one; because she was dog-tired, had a nine o' clock, two, because she had a splitting headache as a result from her nightmare, and three because his girlfriend made sounds that was a cross between a hyena and a whale.

"I'm going to let the landlord know about this," he said, trying to keep a calm composure.

She wondered if it would break any time soon. He seemed like he was constantly on edge about something, that or he had a large poker stuck up his arse.

"Well, by all means, call the landlord, hypocrite. You were telling me about making noise about coming back from a night-out, automatically presuming I go to clubs," Grace snapped back at him, snatching her mug and cereal bowl off the surface, turning her back on him and storming back up to her room.  
  
In her room she felt like throwing her mug across the room before realising it would be a tragic waste of tea. It was just bad luck she'd ended up with a rude housemate.   
  
When ready for class, she saw him at the foot of the stairs and slightly halted. His look was simultaneously indifferent and frosty, as she walked past him towards the front door, her bag shuffling. Her annoyance was soon forgotten as she spent ten minutes looking at her map trying to find the way to campus. She was unused to Yorkshire weather, forgetting it was much colder. Why was this town, Feston, a small respectable English town so damp, dark and unwelcoming? She spent five to ten minutes walking down the long terrace of houses, all bay-windowed; some with stairs going to a basement flat like hers, some without. Some curtains were drawn, so were wide open, and she had a glance into student rooms. One window was aligned with empty beer cans and wine bottles, as if for decoration or celebration. 

The sky, surprisingly enough for this part of the country, was clear, the sun casting a hazy glow over the little student houses. It was a lot colder without cloud cover however. She had to pass through many of these streets to get to her university, which she had researched extensively on the internet. She saw as a shortcut, there was a little park to cross before entering the University through the back, and was surprised by the nature that surrounded her. It was as if she was briefly cast away from the dank town into another part of the country. The land dipped around her and rolled into the distance. Misty fog hung above the grass. It was extremely cold, for September. This year was going to bring a harsh winter. There were few puddles on the ground, and some people were walking their dogs. Some students walked together chatting away, some walked alone. She didn't understand how people had that much energy to talk in the morning. Up a steep hill, she walked pass several plain buildings and a car park, where the staff and few students exited their warm cars. Atop the hill, was when she finally entered campus. She crossed what seemed to be a courtyard, her eyes taking in every crevice, person, branch, even cracks on the cobbled stones beneath her feet.

A clock tower struck, and her heart clenched; it was already nine and she was going to be late. Across the road, and into an incredibly ugly-looking sixties building with brown brickwork and heavily blackened window frames; the Arts Centre. The campus had been teeming with people, young and old alike, just like the buildings. She had been nearly run over by a couple of bicycles, and two boys, most likely undergraduates, had been messing around and nearly knocked her off her feet. It was like playing a game of dodgems passing through campus, but she was relieved when she entered the building.The art room, one of many, was not difficult to find and upon entering, she was greeted with glorious light that fell down from a large ceiling window. The room was sparse; on one side of the room was a large space filled with easels, and little wooden tables that were covered in old splodges of paint, from the work of past students. She found she'd been standing there staring with her mouth open. She was brought out of her daydreaming by a jovial, loud voice.

"Hello, my dear! Welcome to graduate Fine Art! Take a seat with an easel…"

She turned to see a frail woman, with a terrible posture grin at her. The woman was so badly round-shouldered it looked as if you could balance a full tea cup on her back and it wouldn't spill.

She was covered from head to toe with an excessive abundance of jewellery, and her frazzled greying hair was pulled back slightly with a speckled bandana. She wore a (hideous, Grace thought) colourful skirt that covered her feet and a little sheepskin gilet.

Her spidery, leathery hands were covered with henna patterns and silvery rings. Grace thought she was the most interesting person she had ever met. She wanted to paint her. Enlightened, she nodded, smiled and sat down to a rather grumpy looking girl on her left, and a skinny, frightened looking boy on her right.

"Right!" spoke the lady, clapping her hands, her jewellery jangling.

"My name is Heather Leigh…" She had spoken for half an hour about the sessions, the course, herself, art, paintbrushes, the university and students before Grace finally began to nod off, her eyes tired, her face sagging.

"Oh boy….Thirty minutes in, and I've already created a caricature of her..." said a deep voice, and Grace jolted herself awake.

She glanced around the room quickly, forgetting where she was briefly. Heather Leigh was still talking, her eyes still owlishly gazing round at the students with great enthusiasm, her jewellery still jangling as she swept her arms around like that of a windmill. Grace turned her head to find the source of the voice and noticed the grumpy girl, drawing on a small sketchpad. Her chin was resting on the palm of her right hand, and she drew with her left, looking entirely displeased, and bored.

"Dropped off. What've I missed?" Grace whispered, taking a better look at the girl's drawing. The girl smirked, her long straight blonde hair swishing to a side. Grace noticed she had various piercings; lip, nose and a somewhat impressive tattoo on her shoulder of a skeleton. Definitely the arty-student, she thought.

"Nothing except this woman's impending insanity," replied the girl.

The lecturer now turned her attention to the course at hand.

"Finally…" Grace muttered.

If anyone could win an Olympic medal for talking, it would be Heather Leigh. The last hour Grace experimented with all her paints. It was merely an introductory lesson.

She sorted out the paints which needed to be thrown out, along with her paintbrushes. She never was consistent with cleaning her equipment, thinking of a friend she knew back at school, who was ever so clean. She had an apron shoved deep down at the back of her holdall somewhere, and smiled. The blonde girl was packing up her things, a ready-made cigarette in her mouth, her hair slung back in an elastic band by the time Grace had looked up. Already Grace had felt a weird connection with this girl. She was the sort of person you could tell you had a serious heroin addiction a couple of years ago, and she wouldn't even bat an eyelash. She shuddered to think what Crane would think, if he ever found out. Which he wouldn't. _Ugh_ …She thought. She'd briefly forgotten about him.

"Balls…need a lighter," muttered the girl, patting her denim jacket pockets. "You know where the nearest corner shop is? The campus is _tiny_ , but I doubt I can find anythin' with all the pissy undergraduates pissing their pissy freshers' spirit of youth everywhere."

Grace had to stifle a childish laugh, and she smiled as she put her holdall on her shoulder carefully.

"Yeah, passed one earlier on. I'll show you."

"Need a roll?"

"Nah, got one," returned Grace, and the two girls exited the Arts Centre, and walked down the main pathway of campus. Once getting their lighters, biscuits, nick-nacks and other bits of food from the corner shop, the girl, who named herself as Lisa Redmond, parked her bum on a picnic table in front of the Humanities Building. Few students were sat down, most of them undergraduates trying to find their allocated places. The girl lit her cigarette and lit Grace's also.

"You local, then?" began Lisa huskily, blowing her smoke out.

She had unusually large lips, noticed Grace. Her nails were chipped and black, and her skin looked like it had suffered over the years, but was glowing healthily now. Grace felt somewhat envious of this chic girl she had met in her class. But she sensed perhaps this girl was just as broken as she was.

"I'm from York but I lived in Surrey since I was twelve. You?"

"Caerphilly. Wales. Shithole, if you ask me."

Grace tried not to laugh again, but Lisa noticed and laughed for her, the smoke rushing out of her nose. The girls chatted about their respective hometowns for a while. Her family had not contacted her at all, since she had been here. Still, they needed time to heal, and so did she. They stopped their nattering for a while, in contemplative mutual but comfortable silence, gazing around at the throng of students. Grace began to get the feeling that she might just be content here. But her feeling felt somewhat crushed when, among the crowds of people, stood lanky Jonathan Crane, his pinched face severe looking, as Dina walked beside him, somewhat jovially. No one should look that jovial beside him, she remarked in her mind.

"Oh Christ…" she muttered, catching Lisa out of her reverie.

Lisa blew her smoke out distractedly, pinching a chocolate HobNob biscuit out of Grace's packet on the table.

"What?" she asked, her face calm, laid-back as ever.

Grace nearly prayed they wouldn't see her sitting there. He had a somewhat large black satchel on his shoulder, which appeared as if it was stuffed with heavy books and a dark laptop case in his other hand. He seemed impartial to the cold, and only wore a light suit jacket. He looked like he was going to an interview although he was anything but smart. His charcoal-grey suit looked slightly tattered, and his tie clashed slightly with his sleeveless jumper underneath. Only his shoes, a shiny black, seemed the most presentable thing about him. 

He must teach here sometimes, she thought.

"My weird, rude housemate," she replied without thinking. 

"What is he, a lecturer?" asked Lisa. Grace's eyes drifted over his hair. Also scruffy. 

"No, PhD student, doing psychology or something," she replied. Lisa stared at the short girl bouncing alongside him. He was completely ignoring her.

"Sounds snot-nosed," replied Lisa, frowning at Dina. Dina managed to catch sight of them staring with their mouths open, the packet of open HobNobs on the table, their rolled drooping fags in between their fingers. She pulled a smile of delight, tapping Crane briefly on the shoulder, bidding her goodbye. He just nodded and strolled off, his long legs taking him quickly out of view.

"…his hyena girlfriend…" Grace muttered again in exasperation. Lisa shrieked out in laughter, dropping her cigarette. This didn't faze Dina who was continuing to walk towards them, her chest rising and falling quickly.

"Hey, guys!" breathed Dina heavily, sounding as if she had just ran to campus instead of walking. They both replied with an 'alright.'

"How are you? Wanna grab a coffee, if you're not busy?" Clearly Grace Gilmartin had nothing better to do, but she felt her stomach drop to her arse. Lisa was trying her utmost best not to laugh, and she picked herself up from the picnic bench her face screwed up in her attempt. Dina was waiting there, the smile still plastered on her face. She had glistening white teeth, as most Americans seemed to have. Reluctantly she agreed, and Dina mouthed a 'great' and turned to face the café opposite them.

"Have a _great_ time," murmured Lisa, patting her on the shoulder, plugging her earphones in as she walked away. Grace attempted a smile at the beaming Dina, and went to have a coffee. She didn't even like coffee.

* * *

 

Provoking Crane, and probably to an extreme, was more than just a hazardous action but Grace Gilmartin was hardly one to go gentle into that good night.

She'd pissed him off beyond belief it seemed, because by the time she returned home she heard male voices coming from the kitchen, the deeper, northern English sounding voice belonging to her landlord. The other belonged to her housemate, that soft-spoken rasp. Deciding to face the music, she dumped her holdall beside the staircase andwalked towards the kitchen. Her landlord was was short, bald, and had an impressive beer-belly on him; a rather comic alternative compared to Crane. His face was bunched up in annoyance, with Crane behind impassive. He had shrugged off his suit-jacket, and stood in his sleeveless jumper, shirt rolled up to his elbows. Careless mistake, she saw, for as an artist she had an incredibly observant eye. She saw there was a rather nasty burn mark on the underside of his arm.  _Ouch._

"Hi. You must be Grace…Gilmartin?" The landlord began.

"That would be me." She nearly added a 'sir' in sarcasm, but decided it would be an unwise move. Crane just kept his eyes unblinkingly on her. It was beginning to unnerve her.

"You were told specifically you weren't to smoke in the house," began the landlord, who had introduced himself impatiently as Steve Hobbs.The thought of her crushed HobNobs came into her mind; they were right at the bottom of her holdall.

"There's a provided ash tray; you smoke on the balcony, but not in the house. If I receive another phone call about you smoking, I'll have to ask you to leave. That clear?"

She thought his attitude was somewhat off, but it probably suited Crane, who nearly pulled a smirk at her. She felt a blush creep to her cheeks. She felt like she was being scolded like a child. Steve left after several moments, having explained to Crane about the heating, which was going to be repaired within a week. He asked if everything had been working alright, and Crane replied quickly everything was fine, his death-glare mask still on. Steve, somewhat unnerved by his two strange tenants, left as swiftly as he had come. Grace clicked her tongue against the roof her mouth, tapping her fingers on the surface of the counter. He stared at her briefly before making a move to leave.

"I've known a lot of clever arseholes in my time, but you just take the bloody biscuit..."   
  
Today just seemed to be a biscuit-themed day, she thought. Hobnobs and Steve bloody Hobbs. He stopped, his shoulders hunching forward, hands in his trouser pockets and spun around to face her. He was silent for a few moments, but barked out a high-pitched laugh. Then his face fell dramatically and he walked away, his shoes hard on the tiled floor. She barely heard him walk upstairs. An eerie feeling of displacement crept into her blood, as she heard the familiar hum of the refrigerator and the tapping of water from the tap. Forgetting his somewhat eccentric behaviour, she filled the kettle, deciding she'd start a bit of drawing this afternoon.


	6. An Exchange of Insults

 

He watched the clothes he wore day in, day out spin round and round the machine, soap sloshing about in the water. He was deep within his thoughts, lost in a haze of dark contemplation. His thoughts about his course. About the damp country, seemingly no different from damp Gotham, other than everything seemed to be much smaller; from the roads, to the cars, to the meals and the houses. He thought about the attic room. His cold hands clenched together, and his headache slowly eased itself. He'd been working on his thesis for half the day, the other half he'd been lecturing small groups of postgraduates who were studying psychology. He'd returned home just over an hour ago, checking the attic, then coming back down the stairs, listening. He stopped by her door, trying to hear whether she was there or not. _She was_. He could hear her irritating music and her feet thump-thump-thumping around. From the off, he could sense her low emotions and desperation.

His thoughts grew to his experim- 

The door slammed noisily against the wall and he was instantly brought out of his meditation. It was Gilmartin, her cheeks red from the cold and her clothes soaked from the persistent rain. She hadn't noticed him, clearly in a world of her own with her headphones blasting away. 

"You know that young chap from that Polish shop...he was really rude to me the other day..." 

"Oh I dunno why they keep havin' all these foreign shops everywhere. We're overrun with immigrants..." 

His eyes twitched at the sound of the locals who were behind him talking in that most dreadful, annoying vernacular. He saw that her movements were slow and jerky. She was agitated, despite her music blasting loud. Music that loud would be enough to _agitate_ him. Thinking the better of it, she pulled off her soggy coat, and shoved it into the machine also, having to push hard. Her clothes beneath her coat were also soaked. She shakily pulled out her detergent and fabric conditioner and poured them into the machine's drawer. Slamming it hard, she slotted two coins in, and then stood back unsure what to do with herself, tapping her foot. 

His fists were still clenched in his pockets, brushing familiar rough, coarse material…

Oh how he would _love_ to-

"I say ban all the immigration in this country, it's turnin' into a nightmare it is…" Gilmartin looked up, sliding her headphones round her neck and nearly jumped when she saw him. He stood there casually, hands in his pockets, now feeling awkward that she'd caught him looking. 

"Alright," she greeted him - a common greeting in this country - which left him unable to say anything for a mere moment. Feeling that being any ruder to her would work awfully in his favour he pulled a stiff smile.

"Good evening, Grace." She snorted at his reply. His jaw clenched as he looked over the tops of his glasses at her.

"Sorry...that was probably the most formal reply I've ever heard," she said. He straightened up, taking his hands out of his pockets. This was, he hated to admit, quite awkward, seeing as he didn't have anything further to say to her. Her eyes moved beyond him. 

"Look, I feel we got off on the wrong foot. Shall we get a tea?" There was a small café at the back of the laundrette. A couple of tables covered in red checked cloth sat in front of a small counter, with a blackboard advertising various foods he'd never heard of, nor would he ever eat. Did she really think he would join her soaked person, at a probably _dirtied_ table, to sit with _her_ and drink _insipid tea?_ The other people were staring at him waiting for his reaction. Desperately clutching at the material in his pocket, he forced himself to move over to her. She ordered two large cups of tea, and sat them down on the table. 

"Oh come on, Jonathan, I'm not going to bite," she joked when she saw him still standing. Her behaviour surprised him. The way she pronounced his name, the way it rolled off her tongue, sent the hairs on his arms to stand up on end. His dislike for her was still the predominant emotion. Her kind behaviour repulsed him slightly - what did she hope to benefit from such a communication? Where was that agitated girl that had snuck in about five minutes ago? Why hadn't he _added_ to that agitation? It was clear to him that his rude behaviour had irritated her. 

"You're the last person whom I think would _bite_ me," he replied. He sat down mechanically keeping his eyes on her face. Her mouth moved a little in amusement. 

"So he has humour," Gilmartin replied, leaning back in her chair triumphantly, as if she just achieved something. "I thought you were all ice and no fire." He did not touch the tea. He thought he could see the germs on the rim of the mug. 

"From what I've tasted in desire, I hold with those who favour fire," he quoted. Her eyes wavered in confusion. 

"Robert Frost, a poet," he drawled. 

"Didn't think you'd be into literature," she said, raising one of her curved eyebrows. 

"Of course. I was particularly enamoured by James Joyce's _Ulysses_ when I was younger. Although my oh-so-wonderful grandmother didn't approve." 

"I'm not surprised," she laughed. "We read it in school.That book made my toes curl." His mouth pressed together in a thin line, trying not to respond to this with an insult. His eyes roved over her briefly. Her clavicles were emphasised by the boat-necked shirt she was wearing. He could see her black bra showing slightly through the wetness of the shirt. He saw, as he moved a centimetre closer, little purple pin prick marks on the underside of one of her arms. She'd looked away from him in thoughts of her own, not sensing his intense study. He was not stupid. What she didn't know was he was an expert in psychology and reading people like open books. He knew the only way for her to pull the sleeves up of her shirt was for her to feel warm, hot even. So he could only do what he wanted through manipulation, subtle at that. She drunk her tea quite quickly; her cheeks still rosy, heightened further by its warmth. He pushed his own mug towards her in a gesture, fingers brushing accidentally against her own. He gave her one of his thin-lipped smiles. He knew it didn't suit him, he probably looked garishly vulgar in the mirror, but it seemed to have worked on her. 

"You seem to like tea, a lot…" he remarked slowly, eyes roving over her again. "Does it calm you? You seem tense, this evening." She was beginning to become uncomfortable under his gaze.

"I can't live without tea…I'm insulted you didn't want yours though," she said, smiling, joking _again_. Ignoring his observation. 

"Well I am flattered by the offer," he said conversationally, holding her gaze still. "Unfortunately launderette tea is not a favourite of mine." Hating it, he pulled a good-humoured look. Now blushing, Gilmartin pushed the sleeves up her arms unaware of her actions. He bluntly ignored what she was saying now and stared closely at her arms. There was an incredible ugly purple mark on the inside of her elbow. It was a scar, but it was discoloured and shaped like a burst vein. It was about ten centimetres long. He glanced over to the other arm, which was the same although lacking a large scar. He good-humouredly listened to her while she blabbered on about something inane or other. When she realised that he was clearly not listening, a dark look passed over her face. 

"Well, see you later then," she spoke huffily, and moved off, scraping the chair back loudly. The door slammed with a clang. 

"Scared her off, have you?" one of the male customers spoke to him, somewhat jokingly. He heard, but smiled, still staring after Gilmartin.

"Not yet…" he murmured. 

* * *

Grace spent at least an entire day, which was Thursday, avoiding him.

 _Him_. She couldn't say she didn't try. She was lonely and just wanted a housemate who she could make friends with. It seemed he didn't want a friend at all. It was difficult to avoid him as it was her day off, but she managed going to campus without seeing him in the house. He probably was closed up in his room or in a seminar. It could've been likely that she might have seen him on campus; even so, her plan was to ignore him. She suddenly felt terribly lonely as she sat in the arts centre, which had several bright rooms with large windows for students to do their work. She was glad to have made a friend such as Lisa, but with no contact with her parents and living with an unfriendly housemate didn't help things. She saw all the other students, again mostly undergraduates, going about in little groups, chatting noisily over each other. She wondered where Lisa was. No-nonsense Lisa who'd probably have Crane's balls from the start. She only wished she could grow more of a shell. She suspected something about Crane. She sensed that he was going to use the tiny titbit of information he'd found out about her and use it against her. He might spread rumours about her, telling Dina who would also natter to her own friends. She also sensed that he was trying to assert his control over her by telling her not to smoke. He'd caught her, a day ago before the laundrette trip, smoking by the back door with it open. It had been raining, and she purposely remembered to be diligent by using the ashtray, and spraying a can of room-spray around the kitchen. Hoping he wouldn't smell it, but he did and the next thing she was cornered in the kitchen like a mouse by a cat. His way of talking to her angered her at first, but she simply let it go after a while. It was no use getting worked up over him, she told herself.   
  
Lisa had briefly popped in to say hello, complaining about her upcoming STI test, slacking off some 'dickhead'. She said she was quite worried about the results. She glanced at Grace, watching closely to see her reaction, afraid of her response but to be honest Grace Gilmartin couldn't be less judgemental. Lisa seemed to be a saviour in this little dank town, a town which Grace had not even explored yet. All she knew was that it had a small medieval town centre, with a supermarket, and a beautifully built church at the core. She remembered she had brought her camera, which was shoved somewhere deep in the inner-pockets of her holdall. Grace decided to go into a carping match to keep it level with Lisa, sensing she needed it, and complained, for ten whole minutes, about her impertinent housemate. She probably exaggerated, creating him into more of a monster than he really was, but it was strangely satisfying. She felt the usual, but unpleasant fulfilment you get from complaining about another human being, particularly one you felt was damaging that moral code you so upheld. That certain satisfaction brought her back to her young teenage years at school. Lisa watched her new friend in fascination, but it was nothing dissimilar she'd heard before. There were all kinds of housemates; pity the girl ended up with the jerk. Lisa patted her black leather jacket pockets, a filter tip in her mouth.

"You got any baccy? We need a baccy-fill and coffee. Or tea. I have a brilliant idea. Actually, it's a fucking  _amazing_  idea."

So they trailed to their now favourite designated spot, a bench in a small little garden that was behind the 19th century buildings that surrounded the courtyard. Lisa sipped on coffee while Grace had her usual tea, this time being chai tea, one of her personal favourites. Lisa told her good idea, but had to stall for she was late for a meeting with her personal tutor. Instead, leaving the plan to another day, Grace walked home, the sun lower in the sky. She decided she wasn't going to let Crane continue playing his smug dominant card, and further irritated him by making the place messy. 

* * *

 

He returned home rather late that night to find the kitchen in disarray. Dirty plates, cutlery and crockery were strewn about thoughtlessly. There were little bits of food clogging up the plug in the sink. Dirty water with more pieces of food swirling around, sat there smelling. A tea-towel's surface was smudged with a charcoal-like substance, probably burnt food. The cooker's exterior was dirtied, around the gas hobs. The counter's surfaces were covered in crumbs, and bits of smeared food. He felt his skin crawl with fury when he finally stopped analysing the kitchen, and put his thin black briefcase on the floor, in a spot which wasn't in a puddle. There she was; what he felt like his adversary right at this precise moment, half hanging out on the balcony, smoking a cigarette.

"Alright, Jon," she addressed him somewhat loudly, and bluntly.

He walked over to his cupboard, and saw the usual had happened. What was the _matter_ with this girl? He nearly let his irritation overpower him for a mere moment, realising that becoming angry in her presence would be her intended goal. He span back round, wiping his thin hands on his suit jacket, adjusting his glasses mechanically. He cleared his throat. He stood there for a good minute, just scrutinising her. She couldn't look at him properly in the eye, because the light from the overhead hanging lamp caught off his lenses. Then, he walked over to her, making sure he was very close to her, but not close to produce the wrong impression. After all, he wasn't seducing her for Pete's sake.

"Cease your _pathetic_ tricks, Gilmartin. Also please don't let me remind you again about the smoking."

"Cease _what_ , my good sir?" she replied and blew smoke into his face. He repressed the urge to cough. She was really, really pushing his buttons today. He'd become recently frustrated with his work, and this woman was the last thing he needed. She made a great notion of frowning and staring around her, presenting a confused façade.

"I've really got no idea what you're on about." He paused, breathing in slowly. Looking down at her over his glasses, he pulled a sly smile. 

"You think yourself funny, Gilmartin," he said.  "You know what you are? You're one of those garden-variety student depressives, shabby in your try-hard arty clothing with little taste. A good upbringing from wealthy ma and pa has given you some sophistication but you're not more than one accent away from poor, common _chav._ You could only dream of getting away from it all, but look where it's ended you...Sad and lost, scratching at the walls...Desperate to convince everyone you're doing this degree for a reason, and that you're _happy_ with it all. So desperate to create a persona to cover that shameful junkie habit."

Her limbs froze. His nostrils had flared when he'd spoken, and a tiny bit of spit found its way onto her cheek. Her mouth hung open a little in shock. Satisfied by her reaction, a pleasant shiver cascading itself down his spine upon seeing the fear on her face, he turned around picking his briefcase up. He rolled his shoulders forward a couple of times, as if shaking off his previous annoyance. Her jaw clamped in sudden anger. Before she could reply, he spoke again as he turned. 

"Oh and don't forget to clean the kitchen. I don't want to come down to find the place in a pig sty again."  A great line enveloped along her forehead, one that was of anger. She was trying to mask her fear. Was that what it was - she was _afraid_ of him finding out, yet it had only taken a matter of a few days…He clicked his tongue against his teeth in approval. She pushed herself away from the doorway angrily and left the room. He too walked off, satisfied, fisting the scratchy material in his pocket. 

* * *

 

A tremendous blush had crept on her face, even though he was gone and she'd already left the room. He'd shamed her, like she'd been some naughty child. He'd insulted her deeply. And to top it off, he somehow knew that she was an ex-addict. How?  _Well, I can see why he studies psychology. Can read me like a open book. A massively open book with all the pages on display._ She glanced at a photograph in a pretty frame by her bedside table in her room. Her granny, her mum's mum whom she'd lost a couple of years ago.  _Common. Chav. Garden-variety._ His words danced around in her head and she felt tears prickle at her eyes. It hurt because she knew it was true. Her granny's smiley face looked back at her softly. The thing was, she didn't ignore his request to clean the kitchen, even if it was her intention to piss him off by creating a mess, or 'pig sty' as he so eloquently named it. Somehow she felt afraid of annoying him now, and couldn't bear to feel embarrassed like she had done today. She scrubbed the place down and caught her face in the shiny reflection on the kettle.  _Am I really that shabby?_ The following day, she invited Lisa round. The girl lived on the other side of town and usually took buses everywhere. By the time she'd arrived, Grace was still in her dressing gown, smoking by the back door, mug of tea in her left hand. Lisa came round with a variety of food, plenty of tobacco, and her iPod. The last thing she brought in was a huge stack of old newspapers in a carrier bag. She waved her hand dismissively when Grace knitted her brow. 

"My housemate, Shit Nate, likes to obsessively collect newspapers."

"Why 'Shit Nate'?"

"He's in a band and he's shit."

"Guess I'm not the only one with a fanatical housemate," smiled Grace. 

"Shit Nate and I have been pranking loads of students we don't like at the moment. Wanna prank Crane?" Grace jumped at the idea. Nodding her head in agreement, the two girls soon played post-punk music extremely loud, until they put their little prank into action a damn good prank. A popular student prank at that. She'd heard of much worse though. Her last university was on the coast, and one boy had left his room unlocked for the weekend. His flatmates decided it was a good idea to turn his room into a seaside resort, adding a dead fish into the shower for a finishing effect. The smell was ever present after that, and the sand was eternally stamped into the carpet. Unfortunately, Feston was miles from the coast. 

"It's like playing pass the parcel, or Christmas," commented Lisa.   
  
They wrapped each of his items up in newspaper. Grace found that his room was locked, unfortunately, but they covered his door in newspaper anyway. They wrapped everything they could find that belonged to him, sniggering with laughter the entire time. It took at least three hours, and they got rid of any incriminating evidence. She had particular fun coming to all his products in the bathroom. She picked around at it for a little too long. She glanced at his razor, seeing stray dark hairs within the blades. She looked at his bog-standard toothbrush, the bristles bent far over, signalling he hadn't renewed his toothbrush for over six months. She wrapped everything, including his dressing gown, which was hung up on the back of the door. Suddenly she felt rather out of place, touching his dressing gown. It felt too personal, more so than wrapping his bathroom products. Bending down, she pressed the tip of her nose into the rim of the dressing gown. It smelt of shampoo. She saw a couple of short curled pieces of hair on its rim, and shuddered. She then smelt the torso of the gown. A strange aroma of body odour, mustiness of the house and his shampoo lingered on it. _Ugh, what was she doing?_

"Hahahaha! Gracie you gotta come look at this – this is so bloody hilarious…."

Grace was startled out of her little trance, her heart suddenly pacing a little quicker. She ran down the stairs to find Lisa. Lisa had done a rather brilliant job of wrapping everything that was in the unused living room.

"It's disgusting in here. Jeeze, does he not even _hoover_ the place?" said Lisa. 

"I don't think he even goes in here. I haven't." She flinched when she saw a spider move a little in its cobweb in the corner of the musty room. Now in its light, she saw in front of her a black Victorian fireplace. A poker and shovel sat beside it, and there was a large cauldron-like pot of coal. The sofas were covered in a plastic coating, as if they were being preserved. They were tasteless and gaudy in colour, their floral patterns almost hallucinatory. The floor was wooden; a dark kind of wood, and in front of the fireplace was an ancient looking rug. Lisa rubbed her arms.

"This room is _really_ creepy Grace…Let's go. Still have loads of newspapers...So many potential victims...You can just crash round mine if you like. In case he freaks out." 

"He will definitely freak out..." 

Smiling, the two girls packed up and left, the sky darkening outside. However, when they left, Grace locking the door behind her, she heard Lisa muttering. Frowning, she turned round, her breath showing up in the cold air. She saw Crane coming down the end of the street, holding his briefcase. He wasn't wearing a coat and didn't seem to be affected by it. He wasn't enthralled to see them either. Grace just stared at him. Her heart began to pound hard in her chest. For some reason, he'd quickened his pace, but Lisa was already tugging on her sleeve.

"Mate, let's go…"

They headed off, their legs breaking into a run. Lisa began cackling with laughter, but Grace wasn't. They ran all the way down the road to the opposite end of the street. The streets were quiet, and the orange light from the streetlamps emitted a hazy, amber glow. But Grace couldn't laugh, as she walked beside Lisa, towards a familiar bus stop. A couple of other students were waiting, chatting amongst each other. For the first time, something hit her, a feeling of desolation and eeriness. The dark night had a sinister atmosphere about it, and she realised there might be more to Crane than she realised. However, as she arrived at Lisa's six bedroom rented house, music booming above her, she began to think she was just overreacting and that Crane was just a stuck-up git. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some say the world will end in fire,  
> Some say in ice.  
> From what I’ve tasted of desire  
> I hold with those who favor fire.  
> But if it had to perish twice,  
> I think I know enough of hate  
> To say that for destruction ice  
> Is also great  
> And would suffice.
> 
> \- Robert Frost (1920)


	7. Unpredictable

She didn't go back to her house until the Sunday of that week, anticipating Crane's reaction. She almost regretted doing it, but then she remembered what horrible things he'd said to her. Originally Lisa was going to accompany her but she had received an urgent call from home about a relative, and she had to leave, making the greatest of apologies. Typical, thought Grace. Just note his every little reaction for me, was the last thing Lisa had said. So, brooding on her thoughts, Grace Gilmartin took a long walk home, her hands stuffed deep into her woollen coat pockets. It embarrassed her to think that he knew about her intimately - that she was a heroin addict. Deciding she'd faced much worse, she entered the house clumsily and loudly as normal, music player plugged into her ears. The lights in the hallway were off and she tried to ignore the continuing churn of nerves that swept around in her gut like a raging storm. She felt a peculiar smell, a strong chemical smell, and wondering if he'd decided to disinfect the place. She turned on the main light in the living room, once opening the door. She hated the room. She saw it was still mostly covered in newspaper. She caught her white-faced gaze in the cracked mirror of the room, and jumped slightly.

 _What was the matter with her_?

Switching the light off quickly with the palm of her hand, she slammed the door shut and trudged down to the kitchen. She felt more relaxed, dumping her saddle bag on the ground and switching the radio on. She decided she preferred having the radio on in the kitchen, when preparing meals and ironing her clothes. Grace tried to ignore her shaking hands. She was either suffering from adrenaline, from the thought of angering him, or simple fear. She didn't particularly want to admit the last one. He was no where to be found however, but her heart clenched when there was a huge, angry rip in the newspaper that covered his door. It looked liked a cat had gone for it. Bits of shredded newspaper littered the dirty rustic carpet beneath her. It was slightly unnerving. Breathing deeply, she dumped her bag in her room, and decided to perform a task that was relaxing to her – ironing. It was also something that desperately needed to be done. She tried to warm her cold hands on a steaming mug of tea. 

Popping some pasta into a large saucepan after turning the gas hob on, she got straight to ironing. The ironing board took up the entire width of the kitchen, between the window sill and the sink. The hanging light was bright in the kitchen, and it was very dark outside. She saw the town's orange lights twinkling beyond the trees in the back garden. She was itching for a cigarette, but fear held her back – she already provoked him enough with this prank, why provoke him further with the smoking? Angry at her reasoning, she nearly burnt her finger on the tip of the iron. Suddenly, she heard the floorboards above her creak noisily. She knew his room was above the kitchen. His door abruptly slammed moments later, and she heard him slip down the staircase ever so silently. Her heart had never pounded so hard in her life. Grace grabbed her glass of red wine that she poured earlier and glugged it down hastily.

Dutch courage, she thought. Unfortunately her back was to the door so she couldn't see him enter the kitchen. Her hands quivered a little as she ironed clumsily, nearly scalding her fingers. 

"That was a funny trick, Gilmartin. You had me in stitches…" his voice suddenly came from behind. She still jumped in fright, but didn't immediately turn round. Calming herself, she put the iron back on the metal end of the board, reached for her glass of wine, and twisted around. Her face was pale looking, but composed. "Interesting," she interjected. "Didn't think it was possible you could laugh."

His eyes looked over her. She had scrunched up her tired hair with a barrette and her t-shirt swooped low on her neckline. His eyes briefly flicked to the scars on her arms. Noticing, she turned back round angrily, manoeuvring round the ironing board to her pasta on the hob. She poured half a can of chopped tomatoes in another saucepan, finishing with some oregano. 

"Only when it's needed," he replied. "But I do remain unamused by your ridiculously childish pranks." He watched her sigh, her shoulders drooping and turned back round to face him. 

"Well, perhaps you deserved it. You've been relentlessly unpleasant since the second I walked through the door," she said, folding her arms in defence. He snorted, putting his hands behind his back and standing tall. 

"Actually, if I may recall, you climbed in through the front window," he said, keeping his face as blank as possible. She raised an eyebrow at him and sipped at her wine. Since he'd come in she had somewhat relaxed. Perhaps she was anticipating him to act furious. He was anything but predictable and boring. It was clear she had enough. Clearing her iron board away, she let the pasta on the hob simmer before turning back round towards him. He was blocking the exit. He leaned in towards her, her face several inches below his. 

"Remove _all_ that newspaper you so lovingly wrapped. Please. I have a class to teach in the morning," he said. He was trying to remain polite, in control, but she could tell there was something beneath the surface, simmering away. However she took no heed of his somewhat frosty expression. 

"Didn't find it funny then?" she snapped at him.  

"Not in the slightest," he replied calmly. 

"Well we're even then," she said, beginning to feel incredibly annoyed. He raised an eyebrow in query. Unfortunately for him, he'd mirrored her actions from the other night; his shirt sleeves were rolled up. He'd lost the sleeveless jumper.  Maybe that's why he is more intimidating, she thought. Luckily I caught sight of this mark before he could realise and hide it.

"Perhaps removing the newspaper will-" She cut him off, sharply. 

"You ever considered pointing that magnifying glass on yourself?" she said to him. "What about the burn mark on the underside of your arm? Want me to make some judgment about that?" Something bulged in his jaw as she locked eyes with him. 

"Remove the paper," was all he said, before leaving her in the kitchen. She heard a distant door slam. 

 

* * *

 

 

Meanwhile, Crane took two steps at a time as he went up the stairs, and slammed the door to his room shut, the sound reverberating throughout the house.

_How on earth did she notice his burn mark? That was incredibly observant of her._

He didn't want to have a housemate. Now he had _her_ , this unendurable woman he couldn't shake off. The burn happened several months ago, half a year almost, in an abandoned laboratory. He unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve, and pushed it up. He ran a single, long finger over the burn mark, his skin tingling at the sensation. He had been experimenting with several chemicals. He had been so intensely involved, giddy with anticipation, forgetting his surroundings. He'd been sat at the table for hours on end, forgetting time. It had been over a weekend when he hadn't been asked to come into Gotham University to help with research. Pointless, useless research with his irritating fellow students.   
  
However his exhilaration had turned to frustration, leading to carelessness. In his dissatisfaction he had torn his lab coat off, growing warm, exposing an arm. Moments later, he had knocked an entire beaker of strong chemical over his arm. The entire first layer of skin had been corroded away, resulting in a serious second degree burn. It had taken weeks to heal, fortunately not involving a skin graft, simply because he had refused. So he let the skin heal, painfully, for longer, resulting in an ugly scar. But it reminded him of his ever-lasting endeavour to achieve what he wanted. It would only take a matter of time, now.

 

* * *

   
Grace had class the following day, once again at nine o' clock. She felt utterly perplexed at first, but the throes of sleep melted her thoughts into blankness. There was, she thought the next morning, nothing to be perplexed about. It was clear, written in the air; she needed to find another house. She'd done what he had ordered her at first, but she had only gone as far as the kitchen. Knowing he would possibly be awake early, Grace decided to skip soggy corn flakes and practically ran to the bathroom at full steam ahead. She didn't bother showering and scrubbed her teeth hard and fast, making the gums bleed. She snuck out as quietly as she could, the cold air inside the house brushing against the hairs on her arms. Avoiding him was going to be the main plan until she could find another house, and pronto. 

  
She speed-walked to campus, taking in a lungful of beautiful, fresh air. There were many students about as usual. She grabbed a tea and croissant and began to sprint to the arts centre, seeing she was a couple of minutes late. The light flowed beautifully in the room. Heather Leigh wasn't there yet, unsurprisingly; she was the most unpunctual lecturer Grace'd ever known, much to her good fortune. The class of ten were there and she could hear Lisa's voice scoff with laughter. The two hour session seemed to drag by painfully slowly. Despite it being the first term, Grace lacked motivation. They were all working on a small individual project at the moment, linked to a recent artist. Everyone started to pack away, signalling the session was over. Lisa had to nudge her a little, her face devoid of any of her previous amusement, caused by some of the larking about she had produced in the past half hour. She frowned deeply at Grace, lost in thought. Grace shoved all her things hard into her holdall, feeling angry herself.

"Wanna get some lunch, mate?" came Lisa's voice, stirring Grace out of her thoughts. 

"God yes," was her reply. All the students swept out of the art studio, and out of the Arts Centre onto the busy campus again. It was the busiest she had seen it yet, yet the strong wind that blew from behind them blurred the vision of the hectic grounds. It spat hard with rain, and the air was harshly icy. Grace felt her fingers stiffen with the oncoming coldness. Lisa poked an arm through Grace's and they walked hard against the wind that blew so viciously at them, trying to walk through the multitude of people.

"Where's all this coming from?" Lisa had muttered. 

Grace steered them towards the nearest cafe on campus, desperate to get away from the frozen breeziness of the air. Winter was approaching very rapidly although it was only October. The auburn leaves that clung to the trees that stood within the grounds were ripped from their branches, thrown about the campus with intense force. Lisa caught one in her hand, and stowed it in her sketchbook, before entering the café through the glass door. There was a fairly large queue, and the baristas ran around like blue-arsed flies, trying to attend to each customer. At the front, an elderly professor was having a raging battle with one spotty male barista. People were craning their heads and tapping their feet in impatience. Grace's cheeks and fingers were stinging from the cold, and she caught a glance of herself in the windows of the café. Her cheeks were rosy red and her eyes bright. She hadn't looked this well in a long time. The noise in the café was so intense, she could only just about manage to lip read what Lisa was saying - something about cake and tea.  When she brought her eyes up once more, her stomach felt like it had somersaulted. She had glimpsed Dina and calculating quickly, her eyes had moved to the taller figure. Her housemate whom she'd planned on avoiding for the next week until she found another place.   
  
Dina was clutching a shiny, squeaky red raincoat in her hands, dripping water all over the place, and her hair was plastered messily to her forehead. Only in an attractive way, thought Grace begrudgingly. Crane, on the other hand, seemed to be relatively rain-free in an old, thick black coat, with a laptop case in one hand. Dina was swinging about a clear plastic umbrella in enthusiasm, flicking droplets of water around. She noticed with amusement that people in the queue flinched from it, and someone rubbed at their eye irritably. Crane looked like he was sucking on a lemon – as he always did, not helped by high cheekbones and a most unpleasant expression of antipathy. Grace grasped her holdall's strap on her shoulder tightly, turning her away sharply, hoping he hadn't seen her. Lisa was now in conversation with a blonde guy ahead of them, oblivious to Grace's sudden awkward 'help me' expression. Dina turned off the other way, saying a goodbye to Crane, heading for the ladies toilets. On the other hand, Crane made a beeline for her, and she did her best to ignore him, deciding what specific tea she wanted and oh – _whether to go for a large, hmm, two quid, or a small, that was pretty cheap but not value for money_ -

"Gilmartin," he breathed, having walked up to her predatorily, his eyes inexpressive behind his glasses. 

She counted to five and turned her head, clearing her throat, and kicked the back of Lisa's shoe subtly. It didn't miss the attention of Crane however, and he glanced, sticking his chin outwards to gaze condescendingly at Lisa. Lisa held one finger up, telling Grace to wait, chuckling hoarsely at something the blonde guy had said.

"May I have a word?" he started, shifting his feet, though not out of discomfiture.

It was like he was setting a pace, a challenge. She saw droplets of rain on top of his reddish brown hair and on the lenses of his glasses. He was studying her again from the point of view of a clinical physician or therapist; with great interest but detachedly, like a curious onlooker in the scene of a nasty accident. She saw his eyes grace over her face a little longer than necessary. She sighed through her nose, breathing deeply, remembering it was only a matter of time before she was out of that mouldy house. It felt like only she and Crane were the ones in the room, amidst the noisy scene of the café. 

"No can do," she said through clenched teeth, meeting him in the eye, hoping to put him off. 

A little dent, which Grace had never noticed before, formed in his temple, as he analysed her over the cold screen of his glasses. He joined the queue, to her horror, standing beside her and began talking to her in his gritty low voice. Lisa had noticed what was going on, but she did not realise it was Grace's housemate that had recently joined. Then, as if washed clean of all dislike, Crane's face changed a little. Not necessarily one that transferred from hate to impassivity, but one that had a certain look she couldn't quite place. It wasn't entirely pleasant but it wasn't disagreeable either. He cleared his throat, as if preparing for a speech.

"I'm sorry about what happened," he spoke, ever so softly. She briefly misheard him. The noise of the cafe drowned out his voice slightly, but she had to ask him to repeat it again. His jaw moved a little, as if he clenched it. He clearly didn't want to say it again, but he did so, widening his eyes a little. Lisa was still not turning around. Sudden hot waves pushed the blood to the surface of Grace Gilmartin's cheeks and she swiftly found herself embarrassed. What the hell was he playing at?

"I never wanted to come to what it did, I hope you understand. I lost my temper. It was uncalled for," he began speaking again, somewhat coldly.

You're not sorry at all, mate, she thought, narrowing her eyes at him. 

"I don't understand you-?"

"I can perfectly understand this resentment and fear you're feeling," he spoke almost silkily. The condescension in his voice was unbelievable, and she couldn't help but let a small snort escape. He accentuated the 'f' in fear a little too much for her liking. At this point, the queue moved forward, and the blonde guy was buying Lisa and Grace cakes and tea.

"No, no, it's all on me," he was saying jovially. Crane cleared his throat loudly, so that Grace's eyes drifted back over to him. 

"M-my research – it was troubling me that night," he said. She felt like someone had hoovered the words out of her mouth. She stared him hard in the eye when he'd said sorry, but he wasn't blinking although she swore she saw him twitch a centimetre forward when she raised her eyebrows. She saw the blonde guy and Lisa move towards a free table, still chatting away. She felt like 'sorry' was such an easy word that was carelessly thrown around. And for someone as rude as him, she decided, it was probably very easy to say the simultaneously empty and consequential word. She never expected him to apologise - it seemed beneath him. And for him to say it so...beseechingly. 

"I would like to m-make it up to you," he said, ordering a coffee blandly as they approached the counter. She frowned, wondering what he meant. He was stood right in front of her, and she was too shocked to move away or speak her mind. It seemed like he was blocking her exit in some sort of obscure way. Lisa was staring at them both now, making obscene gestures with her hands. The baristas made Crane's coffee and he walked over to the condiments area, soon beckoning her over without much expression. Curious, she moved her feet forward ignoring Lisa's rude motions. 

"Well, you haven't bought me coffee. How on earth can I forgive you…" she joked, forgetting her previous annoyance slightly. He shook a packet of brown sugar, ripping the top off harshly, before pouring it into his coffee, not bothering to add milk. He ignored her sarcasm. She stared at him intensely, hoping to make him uncomfortable but it wasn't really working. She had to crane her head to look up at him now that she'd joined him. People were soon behind them, waiting to fill their drinks with sugar and milk. He walked then deliberately away from Lisa and the blonde guy, towards the exit. She followed him, not wondering why, not daring to deviate at this point. She had to admit, she was interested how this was going to turn out. 

"How about dinner tonight?" he asked. If her stomach hadn't dropped for definite, it certainly had now. A little snort came out of her mouth. 

"Errr...surely you're not serious," she laughed. His expression was blank. Grace realised he was the kind of person that took himself extremely seriously, and due to past experiences (whatever they were) didn't really find her particularly branch of sarcasm very funny. She wasn't quite sure if he was asking her out or simply 'making it up to her.'

"Ok...you are serious. Well, what about Dina?" she asked. For the first time, his face changed. He raised an eyebrow. 

"What about her?" he replied, the frown disappearing now.

She saw flecks of snow behind him, through the glass door, and people were looking about in wonder. Her mind drifted for a moment. The country never received snow this early, usually it happened around January. The harsh wind blew the snow about roughly. Crane cleared his throat impatiently and she snapped back to attention. She swallowed and shuffled awkwardly.

"Well she might be a bit jealous and all that..."  His voice suddenly rattled with laughter at her. He handed her his coffee, forcing it in her hands a little too roughly so the hot liquid spilt on her fingers a little.  She tried her hardest not to wince, thinking he might've done it deliberately. He pulled out gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. 

"She isn't. And even if she was – it wouldn't matter, because I'm not asking you on a date, Gilmartin," he replied. Her face flushed a horrible red, the worst kind of blushing available. 

"Fine. The best restaurant in town it is then," she snapped. She warmed her cold fingertips on the styrofoam cup. Grace's saviour arrived. Lisa slammed her mittened hands down on Grace's shoulders, emitting a yelp from her, and Crane's eyes lazily glanced up to set his hawkish gaze on the heavily tattooed girl.

"Hey chumps. Sorry to break up this riveting conversation - but Grace has a...really important appointment." 

"Oh really?" said Crane, twisting his features into something derisive. 

"Er...It's her irritable bowel syndrome..." replied Lisa. It was difficult not to elbow Lisa hard in the ribs. 

"Might want to avoid cake then," he replied, looking at Lisa's saved table behind them with several plates of cakes. Grace felt like she couldn't get any redder. He said goodbye and promptly disappeared into the crowd. Lisa put an arm around Grace and turned her back towards the table where the blonde guy was sat, a laptop sat in front of him. Grace reached for a piece of shortbread and shoved it into her mouth ravenously. 

"Well that was awkward, thanks Lisa," she mumbled through the shortbread. 

"Was that who I thought it was?" asked Lisa. Grace gulped all her coffee down, which was too warm for her now. She realised it was the coffee that Crane had just bought - bought for her, it seemed.  

"He asked me out to dinner," she announced. Lisa raised her eyebrows, picking pieces off her cupcake, and popping them into her mouth. The blonde guy seemed to be uninterested in their conversation, tapping away on his laptop.

"You're not gonna accept, though, are you?" asked Lisa. Grace, honestly shrugged, grabbing another piece of shortbread. It reached the hour, and people left to go to their lectures, lessening the noise of the café.

"No idea. He was pretty sincere." Lisa frowned darkly.

"What a slimy…." Grace ignored the intensely foul word that followed afterwards, thankfully no one else had heard. She smiled a little, stunning Lisa into silence.

"Ahhhhhhhh I get it. He actually likes you. That's why he's such an arse to you. Yeah. That makes sense....not," said Lisa, sarcasm evident in her voice. Lisa smiled at her, chewing on a bit of icing from a cupcake.

"You're serious? Tell me every single detail, by the way. A date with Johnny it is."

"It's not a date," persisted Grace. Lisa clapped her hands.

"You thought it was!" Grace couldn't help but laugh as well, and chucked a bit of leftover shortbread at her. They may have laughed about it for the next minute, but part of it left Grace feeling cold. One moment they were talking seriously. The next minute they were giggling about the ridiculousness of a date. He'd insulted her in the most pin-pointedly accurate way, and she'd accepted? 

They laughed, they ate, and they drank their tea, before walking back home.

 


	8. Conversation Over Dinner

Grace spent an unproductive day doing things that were not painting or involving her degree. She told herself she’d find the motivation again. But the truth was she’d lost it since her addiction. Later that day she tried to call home, yet it continued to ring until it was stopped abruptly, not going to the answerphone. She knew it was because her mum had purposely hung up. Her spirits were in the deepest depths by the time she finally changed out of her pyjamas in the afternoon and walked to the nearest supermarket. She decided she’d bake cookies until she’d have to get ready to go to dinner with Crane. There was a storm of anxiety bubbling away in the bottom of her stomach at the thought of it, although she wasn’t sure why. If anything she was surprised he suggested it after what’d said and how he acted. Why would he want to? _Oh well._ She tried to ignore it anyway, walking about the supermarket cheerfully humming away, picking out ingredients for her cookies. People pushed past her, intent on collecting their own ingredients. Some stood in the middle of the aisles, no idea they were causing heightening bedlam. Trying to remember her shopping list that now lay uselessly on the kitchen counter, she wandered like a lost soul throughout the busy aisles of the supermarket. Her thoughts drifted to her past, the particular painful ones, when she was still using. Anxiety for a junkie was usually a full-time job. She wondered why they were returning now, in the middle of the supermarket, late in the day.

*

_It was a hot, summer day, one of those unusual spurts of weather the country occasionally had. The rear of her dress stuck to her back, the hem of it clung to her thighs. She exited the dirty exchange shop, looked back and forth down the road, and crossed it quickly. Despite the humid air it was pouring with rain – it was like a monsoon._

_The gutters were filled with dirty water, bubbling at the surface._

_Her skimpy summer dress with printed flamingos clung to her further as the rain hammered. Her nipples showed through the wet fabric. She squinted through the hard rain, and ran towards the car over on the opposite side of the street. Her friends Kieran and Chloe sat inside, their faces mystified. She got in, breathing hard and soaking wet, and lit a cigarette. It was silent for a moment or two._

_"You were gone for ten minutes," began Chloe, finally._

_Sighing, Grace took out forty pounds from inside the pocket of her wet summer dress._

_Kieran frowned at the wodge of money slapped into his crotch._

_"There's fifty. He stank."_

_Terrible realisation took hold of Kieran and Chloe’s faces._ _Shocked at what their friend had just done, they both sat there, mouths open. They needed money desperately in order to keep using, but they had never imagined this. She felt desperate, she felt angry. The fact they acted shocked. They knew what it’d come to, the idiots._

_"Grace…. are you ok?"_

_"Just drive home,” she snapped. “Get some rum on the way.”_

_Kieran did so, and the car started off with a chug and a lurch, disappearing into the heavy rain._

_*_  

It felt like she was realising the full extent of her actions. The past few years had been a blur, ones that were mostly forgotten. Perhaps she needed more help than she previously thought possible. She’d spent a year and a half at home, working menial jobs and she’d been numb the entire way through. It seemed to only be hitting her now. Quickly paying for her shopping, she tried to get home as fast as possible, managing to avoid the rain. As much as she felt she ought to, Grace didn’t want to explore Feston any further. If this was to be the place of her bleak realisation, then she wanted to know little of it as possible. This was close to her hometown, and she did not want to taint her hometown with bad memories. She struggled with her plastic bags full of food all the way home, her cheeks becoming pink with exertion, down the street full of terraced grey houses, down another and another, until she reached her street.  
  
The house that was supposed to be her residence was probably bleaker than all the others – which mostly housed students. There were the residues of her cigarettes littered about the front door. The straw mat was soaked with grime and mud from the weather.The black bin bags had collected rainwater. The curtains of the front bay window were still drawn, and she could see black mould collecting around the inside of the windowpanes. She struggled around for her keys, hands stiff and frozen, before shoving them into the door. She hoped Crane with his extremely unnerving habit of picking up psychological aspects of a person merely from physical scars wouldn’t notice her. She sniggered at how sarcastic she sounded. The place, as usual, was shrouded in darkness. She didn't waste time in unpacking her things, stacking everything neatly in order. She had a glance at his limited amount of food in the fridge. She placed all her new items in the fridge, purposely mixing 'his' shelf with 'hers.'

"Well if we're going to be friends _,_ ” she mumbled.

She watched the starting rain outside idly before packing away her things in her cupboard. She had a brief glance in his; the usual sat there, all neatly stacked and untouched by her.The ground coffee, the beef stock, chewy value baked beans, granulated sugar. The sugar packet was soggy, probably because of the damp in the cupboard. She took a knife from the drawer and stabbed a tiny hole in the packet of sugar. It popped open easily and the sugar fell like a waterfall from one shelf to another while she watched, satisfied. _Just in case he pisses me off at this dinner. Date. Dinner. Date? Just dinner._ Cheered, she began working on a recipe – granola and white chocolate cookies. Maybe she’d offer one to him. He needs sweetening up, she thought dryly, and then laughed. By the time she had her dough mixed, white flour caked her hands and her black jumper, while some of it had landed on the floor. The oven was whirring away, and she lined a couple of baking trays with tin foil that belonged to him. She could never get the hang of tearing foil off cleanly, and ended up making a mess.

 _Ten reasons to kill Grace Gilmartin_ , she thought, amused at her own antics. Trying to ease her tension about the upcoming 'dinner', she switched on the radio as she separated the dough into balls. She was twisting, turning and twirling in time to the music, finally whisking her creations into the oven. They need at least twenty-five minutes or so to bake. _Time for a shower._ In the grimy bathroom, she was going to have to make a point of cleaning it, from top to bottom. It was rather depressing going in there. The rather bright, white light highlighted every rancid corner of the bathroom - from the orange coloured dirt in-between the tiles, to the muck that had gathered on the plumbing pipes.She saw grime clinging to the edge of the taps, and grunge all over the sink. She wasn't sure how long Crane had been living here, but judging how meticulous he was with his storing of his things, she guessed not very long. The previous students had left this house in a rotten mess and clearly the landlord could not be bothered to hire a professional cleaner to clean it, or clean it himself. She had seen black mould growing in certain areas all over the house. She stripped off, dumping her clothes on the plastic tiled floor. Suddenly she caught her reflection in the mirror. Grace couldn’t blame her housemate for so shrewdly guessing a past addiction. Needle after needle after needle had gone into her left arm, on the inside of her elbow. When the veins collapsed, it permanently left a scar. It hadn’t helped the entry points had become infected after a while. She still struggled to put on weight, wincing at the prominent ribs and hips.  
  
Soon scrubbing her shampoo into her hair hard, she caught sight of his shampoo bottle. Incautiously she picked it up, smelling it, inhaling deeply. A shudder passed through her, and then she quickly put it down, hoping it was in the same position. She thought of her ex-boyfriend, and then blanked it quickly. The shampoo smelt so distinctly male after all. She found herself poking at his various utensils nosily, smelling his shaving cream, analysing his razors and plucking at the few teeth left in his comb. Each instrument she prodded at she imagined him using. She tried to blank that out too. She heard the front door downstairs suddenly slam. Her eyes caught in the mirror as she dried off, and immediately imagined his eyes behind - those glassy, sneering eyes. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was only a couple of hours before the meal with him. Sighing, she threw on a loose-fitting camisole and a pair of old jeans. If he said something else nasty to her this evening, she might be very, very tempted to pull another prank on him. Perhaps fill his shampoo bottle or tube of toothpaste with something awful. _Or find another house._ She saw her cookies were risen, brown and fat in the oven after trudging downstairs. She poked at her cookies when she’d put them on a plate to cool, her wonders, her little glories. Baking was just another art form and she was _good_ at it.

"I hope you're going to wash up before we go out," suddenly came a hoarse voice from behind. Grace couldn’t help but jump. Crane was dressed the most casual she’d seen him – his tie was loose, his dark shirt un-tucked and his glasses were off. He was carrying his beloved threadbare sleeveless jumper in one hand. She saw his kept his shirtsleeves down however; she wouldn't like to enquire about that burn scar again. It was no lie he’d been angry at her question, she’d clearly hit a nerve.

"It’s definitely hard for me _not_ to make a mess,” she said honestly. “Might have to warn you in advance.” The air hummed between them. She tried not to think about poking at his stuff in the bathroom and the smell of his shampoo.

“Yes, I gathered that,” was his reply. She snorted and turned to him, giant cookie in hand.

“Would you like one? Granola and white chocolate…" she said, as brightly as she could. She saw him swallow extremely uncomfortably, his Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his thin neck.

"No, thank you," he politely refused. His eyes roved over her unashamedly, regarding what she was wearing.

"I can see you have washed but can I be correct in assuming that you are not wearing this out?" he said softly. Surprised, she raised her eyebrows, and looked down at herself. She was pleased her shower gel worked. She bloody well hoped she smelt like she’d washed. _Creep_.

"This is what I normally wear?” she replied, smiling a little. He wasn't.

"Well, it might be suitable for lazing about in," he retorted, raising his own eyebrows. She lowered her hand with the cookie and plonked it huffily down the plate. He went to switch the kettle on, slinging his jumper over his shoulder. She caught a whiff of his shirt as he leant in; unfamiliar strong chemicals mixed with mustiness – the house. Her mouth became dry as if someone consciously hoovered all the salvia left in her mouth.

"I don't own any classy clothes, if that’s what you’re insinuating," she said, stepping away, not liking the proximity between them. She felt her back pressing slightly against the sink. The kettle whirred. He then chuckled a high, cold laugh.

"Oh Grace. I wasn't insinuating anything," he replied. “But you suggested an expensive restaurant, and well, no one will appreciate it if it looks like you’ve wandered out of Walmart.”  
  
Another insult from him made prompted her mouth to fall open. He had a lot of nerve in criticising her choice of clothing. He wasn’t shabby now, but she’d seen a lot of his clothes were tattered, second-hand or merely crumpled. If he’d been a nicer person she might’ve found that a slightly endearing thing about him, maybe she’d pity him. But he was also right. She’d shot herself in the foot with that one. He fell back from her shocked gaze to pour himself a cup of coffee. She quickly asked him to pour her a cup of tea, and to her surprise he did so. He took a clean mug, ignoring her favourite stained-beyond-imagination Minnie Mouse one.

"You’re taking me out, right? So why couldn’t you say something more diplomatic about my choice of clothing?” she said.

He took the soggy paper out of the filter once the coffee had been sifted and threw it into the bin. Some of the excess liquid caught on the edge of the bin and made a splash, the droplets tossed nowhere in particular. He didn't bother with sugar this time. He brushed past her breezily and reached for the milk, pouring in less than she would’ve liked. She didn't bother to correct him, knowing he must have done it purposely. He was too good to miss things like that; somehow she suspected he knew _exactly_ how she made her tea. He forced an awkward smile.

"Oh. I’m not very, erm-”

“Subtle?” she finished.  
  
He didn’t reply, but she suddenly wondered if he was socially awkward. Maybe that explained the utter rudeness. Then again, he held himself confidently (despite his lankiness) and didn’t shy from eye contact. It still didn’t explain the carefully crafted insult he’d thrown her way a few nights ago. Shrugging it off, she spent the next half hour or so trying to find something to wear. She eventually found a small, black skirt and a chiffon blouse from a bazillion years ago. She dug out some thick, black tights and a pair of patent flats. By the time she re-applied her mascara, and held a red lipstick in her quivering hand, it was already time. It was beginning to feel a lot like a date, yet she wasn’t looking forward to it. Grace stared at the dirty carpet for a while. A dark cloud felt like it was ready to hover over her.

"For fuck's sake," she mumbled, and tossed the lipstick back into the cosmetic case. _Will not bother with lipstick._

Then she thought of Lisa, Lisa raising her eyebrows sardonically.  _Why are you so afraid to wear bloody lipstick?_ There was a time when she wasn’t afraid of doing anything, let alone wearing lipstick. It seemed too much for her now. She never wore dresses or skirts, why should she wear lipstick? Perhaps she could walk into the restaurant, head held high and show him and everyone else she wasn’t intimidated. She saw her black bra blatantly show through her chiffon blouse and smirked a little at herself in the mirror. Would it make him feel uncomfortable? She decided she didn't want to make it awkward for herself in any case and drew out a black camisole, slipping it on. She put some lipstick on with ease. _To hell with it._ When she was ready, she took herself downstairs, soon catching a glimpse of her hair in the mirror by the front door. Her nearly non-existent fringe was sticking up in several places, and her shoulder-length wispy hair wasn't doing much for itself either. She pulled it all high onto her head, into a scruffy bun, thinking it might look elegant. She flicked her eyes down to the lipstick once more and pursed her lips in the mirror, summoning strength from somewhere unknown. As commonplace with anxiety, she felt the need to relieve herself once more. When she turned round, he was already stood there, wearing a smarter dark suit with a plain blue shirt and tie. Drawing back to appraise him, Grace caught a musky whiff of cologne. She couldn't help but inhale it, and the musk hit the back of her throat. He looked like he’d actually taken a comb to his normally disheveled hair.

"You’ve scrubbed up well, Gilmartin,” he said. He tried to offer a smile, but his steely eyes held something other than warmth. She saw his eyes linger on her changed lips, just briefly, before flicking back up to meet her.

“And you, Crane,” she replied levelly.  
  
Whisking on her coat and wintry snood-scarf, she walked to the door after he lifted his arm for her to go first. Their taxi, an old black beamer, was waiting out in the dark street. The orange streetlights beamed down, and she saw a couple of rowdy students on the other side of the road, dressed up for something or other. There was a fresh chill in the air and a slight gust of wind, ruffling her piled-up hair and stinging her face with its iciness. Her ears ached with the sudden cold wind. She got into the car without waiting for him. They drove for fifteen minutes, in complete silence. It was a tongue-tied kind of silence, save for the dance music the taxi driver had on the radio. It was now pissing it down with rain. She watched the windscreen wipers pass, back and forward, back and forward. She watched the bright neon and amber lights of the town centre pass by, the people running down the streets from the rain. She didn't recognise where they were. The driver turned into a car park, which was behind a set of terraced buildings, dating back to the eighteenth century. She reached forward for her purse, but Crane stopped her by reaching forward first. This killed off any kind of ‘oh don’t worry’ comment she had in her mouth and went to open the door, annoyed she’d forgotten her blasted umbrella.

“I have an umbrella, Grace,” he said, fixing her a pinched smile before she hurried out. _As if he'd read her mind._  

He got out first and came round to her side, opening the door. The rain hailed down on them as she got out, feeling like she had a sponge in her mouth. She tried to walk beside him without touching, but occasionally his elbow would brush against her. When they halted outside their destination and entered, Grace felt vaguely surprised. It wasn't an expensive, stuffy restaurant like she had expected it to be, for him to blow his own trumpet about. It was small and done up very pleasantly, with a bar and seasonal blackboards on the wallpapered walls stating an array of delicious foods. There were round and oblong-shaped wooden tables all over the large area, with different sets of chairs surrounding them, each with a different vintage-styled cushion. Old, large lamp covers hung down from the high ceiling, a typically old-fashioned feature. There were few people, and they didn't look up when they entered. They were lost in their own worlds. Crane brought her out of her reverie when he shoved his wet umbrella down into the stand rather roughly, and put a hand on the small of her back, gently pushing her forward. She nearly jumped at the contact. She pulled away from his hand slightly, her side tickling with the unwelcome contact. As they walked to their table, she saw various old photographs of landscapes on the walls, and an antique, turquoise clock. When they were seated, she picked up the menu and saw it was named _The Feston Kitchen._

"It's really nice in here. I'm starved," she said. He shrugged off his coat and hung it on the back of his chair, placing his hard gaze on her finally.

"A place I assumed you'd appreciate. Although you emphasised expensive, I couldn’t stretch my wallet too far.” This now felt embarrassing to Grace. She wished she hadn’t said that in the first place. His modesty made her cheeks burn.

"Erm…I,” she began. He smirked. “I’m sorry I said that. Guess I was still…hacked off.”  Before he could summon an answer, a waitress sauntered over, asking them brightly what they wanted to drink. He ordered a bottle of red wine, with impassivity in his voice and the waitress walked off quickly, as if dismissed. She cleared her throat, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear mindlessly, turning her eyes back up to look at him. Now it was beginning to feel very awkward. She tried to absorb the atmosphere, with the low lighting, quiet murmurs and clinking of cutlery. Crane pursed his lips, about to start conversation when the waitress came over with two glasses and a bottle of wine. He watched the waitress attentively when she poured the wine, occasionally flicking his gaze back up to Grace. The waitress capped the wine, and left.

"Might as well begin again. Where're you from?" she asked, with him pouring her a glass of wine. She didn’t really enjoy wine and preferred her ciders or beers. It felt somewhat patronizing that he’d ordered for her without her asking. Or was it chivalrous? At this point, it was difficult to tell.

"Gotham City," he said, his long spidery fingers gripping the wine glass. She had heard of Gotham, briefly in the news a couple of times. She knew it was a crime-ridden city on the east coast of the USA. It didn’t look too much different from other American cities, such as New York or Chicago, but the sharp spikes and angles of the architecture made it look distinctly gothic.

“Did you grow up there?” she asked, taking a sip of the wine herself. It was rich and fruity, more pleasant than she expected and much better than the cheap ones she’d drunk over the years.

“No,” he said simply. “I’ve lived there for a long time though. And you? You sound…very local.” _Yeah the country-bumpkin accent,_ she thought.

“Born and bred in York. My family moved us to a place in Surrey when I was twelve,” she answered, taking another sip of wine. _I’m going to need it._

“Is that why you decided to return here, then?” he asked shrewdly. She thought about her answer carefully. She wasn’t sure what type of person he was and since he’d already insulted her she was erring on the side of caution at this point.

“I still have family up here,” she lied. Truth was, her father’s parents were dead and her mother’s parents lived in Surrey. Other family members they weren’t in contact with, dead, divorced or moved to another country.

"So why psychology? And chemistry? What do you wanna be when you're older?" she asked. She had to admit, she was curious about her unusual housemate. He wasn’t like anyone she’d met before. He was unflustered by her attempt at a question, albeit a rather informal clumsily made one at that.

"For the moment, I’d like to teach psychology,” he replied. She nodded, intrigued but noticed how he said ‘for the moment.’ No wonder he acted like a therapist towards her, trying to rootle around in her past.

“What’s your thesis on?” she asked, taking an olive from the bowl and plopping it into her mouth. The olive burst in her mouth satisfactorily, signing her taste buds with its savoury, salty flavour.

“The etiology of the fear reflex in primary mammals,” he said without stumbling. She drew back into her seat, somewhat impressed.

“That sounds interesting,” she said honestly. It didn’t surprise her that he was a total brainbox.

“Oh very much so,” he said. His eyes suddenly became animated, vastly different from the coldness she’d usually see in them. “Fear is what holds society together and you cannot escape fear. Fear is power – from governments to marketers, using fear as a tool is very effective. Yet it is also a teacher, probably the first you ever have as a child. Many people become the products of what they fear…fear keeps people’s impulses under control. Fear always reveals the truth.” The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she listened to him. His voice had changed as he’d talked, a lower, raspier voice from his usual higher-pitched analytical voice. He leaned forward, taking a small sip of his wine, claw-like fingers gripping the glass tightly. She could smell his aftershave, which was unnerving because it was likeable. Their table was very small, too small in fact.

“That include humans then?” she tested. He replied with a yes before asking,

"What are the things that make you fear, Grace?” She bit the inside of her cheek hard at this question, and took a large gulp from her wine glass. An inherently a personal question, she thought, and one I’m not confident sharing with him, let alone anyone.

“What do you mean?” she asked, trying to keep her cool. His interest had certainly peaked, his eyes burning with a morbid curiosity.

“It’s a simple question.” With a difficult answer, she thought. People have many fears.

"Fear? I hardly think so,” she answered. “You mean – a phobia? Like, 'am I scared of snakes'? Or fear of – let's say a high electricity bill?"

Grace paused for a moment, thinking on her statement, and the sides of her mouth crooked up into a smile, and she suddenly couldn't hold her laughter in any more. Unbeknownst to her, his face had changed from interested, to contemptuous, but once her gaze flicked back to him, it changed into one of silent derision. He then sported a laugh, one that could rival hers.

"You are amusing, but beyond the pale. Now a fear, Grace, _any_ fear. Now I wouldn't say a bill necessarily came to my mind, but I applaud you for your efforts. Let me give you some suggestions: the dark? Small spaces? Water?" His tone was undeniably condescending, trying to make her feel stupid. Yet in the deepest hollows of her mind, something told her she should lie to him. She wasn’t even sure herself, and certainly didn’t want to think about it. It wasn’t something she’d take time to reflect on. Things like that were best locked away and forgotten about. So she decided to tell him about a so-called 'fear' – one that had never really manifested.

"Well, I guess I don't like spiders very much. Really hate them in fact," she said. He pulled that terrible toothy smile and brought the edge of the wine to his lips. She saw his glass slipped a little in his hands.

"Oh really," he said conversationally, not believing her in the slightest. She nodded, as if to encourage him.

"Yeah, completely terrified to be honest. Go cold and shivery whenever I see one."

He pulled a taut smile again. When he spoke his next sentence, she couldn't see his eyes. He had turned his head in such a way that the light from the overhanging lamps caught off his lenses. It was like looking at someone who was wearing sunglasses; you weren't sure where to look. She chose a particular spot on his cheek, a small mole on the slant of his angular cheekbone.

"Lying to me now, Grace? I thought we were trying to start over. You completely avoided my question, you mentioned an antipathy not a fear.” She pursed her lips tightly, noticing her mistake, of using 'hate' instead of 'afraid.' _Damn it._ He was being too thorough.

“You’re too smug for your own good,” she mumbled, sulkily taking another olive although she knew he was smiling.  
  
She was not going to be a swooning Dina and pay some lovesick homage to him, even though properly looking at him not many women would turn their heads. He had a very lanky frame, as if he wasn't sure what to do with the expanse of his arms and legs. He also had that annoying habit of looking over his glasses. They ordered, him ordering for her. She wondered what it was to him; it wasn't a special occasion, it wasn't a date. She thought that perhaps he really was apologetic. The theory was still on hold, but it could rush out the window. She had a gourmet burger with smoked bacon and cheesy chips. He had a wild mushroom risotto with Parmesan and watercress. She poured herself another glass of wine, sipping it, wiping her thumb over her lipstick mark. She took another glance around the beautiful restaurant, taking it in, trying to enjoy her time here.

"So why postgraduate art?" he asked, startling her a little out of her thoughts.

She felt an oncoming surge of his haughtiness that was going to burst from its dam, now he’d asked her this.

"What do you plan to do with such a thing?" he asked again, taking another sip of his wine. He had nearly finished his large glass. _He should be careful,_ she thought. _As should I._

"I’ve always loved art,” she told him. She wasn’t going to tell him that her inspiration and motivation for art had dropped since she’d been a junkie. He raised his eyebrows as if such a conception was impractical for him.

“You’d like to be an artist?” he said, his interest surprising her. He had that intent way of looking at you while he listened. His body leaned forward, mouth in a straight line, head slightly nodding as he watched you over the top of his glasses. His intent way of listening and looking at her made her think that he’d make a good therapist, despite his initial coldness. At least he let her speak and not interrupt her, or let his eyes drift away like she’d known people do before. He made you feel like that each and every word of yours had weight, meaning, importance.

“It’d be a dream, but artists don’t make much money,” she admitted, shrugging her shoulders.

“Yes, unfortunately. Some of the best artists in history have become famous posthumously. Do you have a favourite artist?”

“Oh, it’s too hard to choose,” she said, her face warming a little. This was, by far, too personal for her. _What did you expect_ , a little voice told her mockingly.

“You said you liked painting landscapes, in the style of Monet?” he asked again.

“I take inspiration from Monet, yeah. Especially now ‘cos I never used to do landscapes, I painted surreal portraits of people.” She was suddenly aware of him looking at her differently. She suddenly and intensely felt her hair gathered off her long neck, the plump redness of her lips, and the swell of her breasts underneath her silk blouse. He was sat back in his chair, calmly watching her.

“How interesting,” he finally spoke. Their food suddenly arrived, and she realised her mistake in ordering a burger; how on earth was she supposed to eat this elegantly and with lipstick on? Grace ignored the conventions and picked the thing up in her two hands, biting into it a little savagely, and the pieces of the burger falling out a little. While she ate ravenously, he only pecked at his food, like a bird. A blob of ketchup dropped down her front. Cursing she dapped her tongue on a napkin and wiped at her left breast, desperately trying to remove the stain. It wouldn't completely remove. She saw him somewhat amusedly stare at her, eyes trained on her chest. His food was mostly untouched.

"You're not eating," she announced, lowering her hands. He shook his head, drinking his wine again.

"I'm not very hungry." _Is he nervous? Has an eating disorder? Or thinks the meal is crap?_

"So you take me out as an apology but refuse to eat?" she said, the burger half chewed in her mouth.

“It’s about your satisfaction, not mine,” he replied evenly. She rolled the balled meat round her mouth awkwardly. He had an unusual way of unnerving her and making her feel rightly annoyed to humiliated the next. And she felt utterly rude at this point.

“I’m sorry, that was…. uh, rude,” she said, forcing the words out. He gaped at her, for a moment. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of apologising for the pranks, not yet anyway. Her pride had to be kept intact.

“What kind of surreal portraits did you paint?” he asked her instead.

“Um, kind of hard to explain,” she said, picking up a chip and eating it leisurely. “The big project I did during my bachelors degree was capturing people’s thoughts, dreams, hopes and fears through exaggerated body movements or features.”

“An example?” he asked. She racked her brains for one of her more impressive sounding ones. Although she wasn’t sure if anything about her style of thought and critical analysis would impress him.

“M-my friend had an addiction to alcohol. He had a tough childhood and had very little self-worth as a result, so he drank to ease the pain. I painted his eyes bigger, tried to capture every colour, line, shape and detail. He had hundreds of bottles behind him, in a setting that was similar to his student house. I painted them almost like serious caricatures.” He was quiet for a moment, in serious thought, looking at the table to the right of her plate.

“Emotive and starkly unique. You surprise me, Gilmartin,” he finally got out.

“Not really,” she said, brushing off the only compliment he’d given her. He chuckled.

“Would you prefer it if I went back to being-”

“A prick? Actually I think I might. Soft stuff I can’t handle,” she said, but it was hard not to let out a grin.

“Why don’t you do it any more?” he enquired, more seriously. His eyes darkened a little.

“Just moved on. Wanted to try something different,” she said stiffly.

“It was more than that, wasn’t it,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. She found herself growing slightly defensive.

“Might’ve been,” she said coolly, fingering another chip and dipping it in the delicious peri-peri sauce.

“It was too painful for you to continue,” he continued quietly. His nostrils flared a little, and he took a large gulp of wine, swallowing it down like he had just swallowed a particular good catch.

“For my friends it was,” she said shrugging, her heart beginning to thump a little.

“When did you decide to stop painting those portraits? When you gave up your past…addictions?” His tone gave the impression he was asking harmlessly but she knew that people easily judged. He knew already, he’d noticed the evidence. She felt her belly full of warm spicy wine fire up with cold passion, her buttons beginning to feel pressed. Maybe she should press his a little?

“Nah, only when I’d run out of subjects to paint,” she said, lifting her glass and taking a large gulp, similar to what’d done just a minute ago. Thankfully, he left his questioning at that. After a brief toilet break, she came back to find her first plate gone, and replaced with a chocolate moose decorated with a black cherry and a mint leaf. She glanced back up to him warily, seeing he had no pudding. She couldn't help but smile a little, feeling like a child. Pudding had always been her favourite, and shyly she picked up her spoon and began to eat it, aware of him watching her. He was enjoying making her feel uncomfortable; he'd been enjoying it right from the start. The moose was nothing like she had ever had before.

“How’d you know I like chocolate?” she said.

“Since you mentioned the serotonin,” he said. She had an incredibly sweet tooth, and by the time she finished it, she nearly forgot about her surroundings. She wiped the corners of her mouth, smacking her lips.

"I love afters," she said. As a child, she'd never had puddings after dinner. Her parents were never very keen on sweet things, and Christmas seemed to be the only occasion they splashed out, probably only for her. It felt somewhat special now to be bought one in a restaurant.

"You still haven’t told me your favourite artist,” he said to her, absent-mindedly pouring himself another glass of one. She wondered how strong his alcoholic threshold was. Luckily for her it was pretty strong. The restaurant seemed to grow with more people as the evening disappeared into night.

“Hm, might come back to you on that one. I have a favourite quote though, one my dad always quoted when he thought appropriate.”

“And what is that?” he asked.

“’It is funny that men who are supposed to be scientific, cannot realise the basic principles of physics; that action and reaction are equal and opposite, that when you persecute people you always rouse them to be strong’.” She thought she’d stunned him into silence, and was quite surprised she managed to remember it all. _Well you should, seeing as history-mad dad always banged on about his quotes,_ she thought in amusement.

"Gertrude Stein,” he replied.

“Wow,” her mouth dropped open. “You really are a walking encyclopedia.”

“So I’ve been told,” he said, rather disdainfully.

“You don’t like being a walking encyclopedia?” she joked. “Still, gotta have its downfalls. You must get headaches a lot, tough job carrying around all that info.”

“Being a ‘nerd’ has never brought me popularity,” he ignored her attempt at being funny.

“The bullies at my school were the ridiculously bright ones. Never fair,” she told him.

“What do you know about fairness?” he snapped. She saw the skin over his knuckles visibly tighten on his glass. Her chest clenched at his small outburst.

“Enough I think,” she replied levelly. She took the last bite of her chocolate moose, savouring the rich, glorious taste, the smoothness of it sticking to the roof of her mouth.

"I can’t imagine you stuck out like a sore thumb at school,” he said coldly.

“And I can’t imagine why a man who is – let me hazard a guess – twenty-five? Still has the school bullies in his head,” she said. The previous taut look in his face melted a little.

“I'm impressed. But you're two years short,” he joked. Maybe, maybe she could just let him off.

“School is shit. But I had far more respect for those outsiders who were unwilling to fit in, despite having no popularity,” she said. He craned his head slightly, as if in deep thought.

“The outsiders might’ve wanted to fit in. As a matter of survival,” he commented. While he paid for the meal, she replied to Lisa's text, which mentioned something about a night out. God, she wanted to go on a night out and get drunk, so very drunk. She hadn’t done so since she graduated a year a half ago. The waitress had offered them coffee, but Crane had cut her off churlishly. Grace noticed his satisfied response in scaring the waitress away, his eyes wandering over the waitress's retreating form in consideration. When they exited the restaurant, there was only a chilly dampness in the air, and the lights of the town centre reflected off the puddles in the street. She didn't turn towards the car park, and began to walk down the street. Her mind was on other things. Namely her art, which she wasn’t sure if she wanted to continue. He caught up with her quickly, his long, gangly legs serving him well.

"I can call another cab,” he spoke hoarsely to her, and she shook her head.

"I think I might walk home. I like walking in the rain,” she said. He raised an eyebrow.

“It is late, and not a good idea to be wondering alone. Who knows what lurks in the shadows…” It was her turn to raise an eyebrow and she burst out laughing.

“What – a gang of thirteen year olds with alcopops? It’s not Gotham,” she said. He didn’t seem to get the joke – did he ever? It looked as if he was debating with himself, whether to appear unfeeling and leave, or grit his teeth and walk with her. Her legs kept going however, and he didn’t appear to have a choice. She heard him intake a short breath of impatience.

“The similarity between Gotham and Feston is the weather,” he remarked, putting the umbrella up. He held it so it covered more of her than him.

"That was a nice restaurant, I wouldn't mind going there again," she said to him. He didn’t reply, but the silence now didn’t feel quite as awkward. He’d certainly made her feel a little more at ease, although he was difficult to read. As they walked in slight companionable silence, for the first time she noticed a slight limp in his step. It appeared to be his right leg and below the knee joint that gave him trouble. Somehow, she knew that enquiring would result in his irritation and a snarky snap. _The evening has gone better than expected, Gracie. Don’t shove your fat foot in your mouth._

“You don’t have to walk with me,” she said softly. He cleared his throat, as if aggravated at being driven out of his thoughts.

“And would me leaving give you satisfaction in knowing I had acted coldly?” he replied, his voice stony.

“Satisfaction would be useless as you’ve already won gold at the coldness award scheme.”

“And I might say ‘bronze’ for your sarcasm,” he returned bitingly.

“Sarcasm like a hot knife through butter,” was her reply. Having bested each other, they continued to walk down the shiny, wet streets, wind blowing droplets of rain. The silence seemed to drag on now, as they both shivered a little from the icy air. The evening had been more enjoyable than she thought, but it had also been strangely exhausting. They arrived home half an hour later, wetter than before. Grace had forgotten her own keys, so she waited for him somewhat awkwardly as he rootled around in his tatty coat. He opened the stiff door, kicking it open slightly, letting her in first. She turned round, feeling like she should thank him, at least.

“That was a really nice meal, thank you,” she said. “I guess I _might_ forgive your initial rudeness.”

“Guess?” he asked, a tight frown falling over his face. She smiled, letting him know that she was ribbing him, again. He was quiet for a few seconds, after understanding.

“You’re welcome, Gilmartin.”

Unthinkingly, his eyes flicked down to her red mouth, and away again. Embarrassed, he suddenly turned his back to shrug off his soaking coat. She couldn't help but smile as she walked upstairs to bed. A small, secret smile.

* * *

 He sat in the webbed shadows of the attic, his hands in his hair in frustration.

He stared down at his formula charts. He could not get it to work in the way he wanted it to. The last test had not lasted long enough. It had worked but for not _long_ enough. There were various spillages all over his erected wooden floors, made out of planks within the room. He always worked far into the night, sometimes until four in the morning. He felt a deep despair, a certain frustration that could only melt into unending anger. He had exposed himself so many times, mostly accidentally, to his own toxins, but he was quickly becoming immune to them. He’d been experimenting since he was eighteen – it was only going to happen sometime or another. It depressed him like nothing else. He tried to think, to work out something new. Perhaps he needed something else in his formula, something else entirely. How could he change it, though? He'd worked with these particular components for some time now. New components would cost, however. Yet at this precise moment his insufferably sarcastic housemate was on his mind, not allowing him to think.

He desperately needed someone to test it on. Perhaps he could promise Gilmartin money at the end of it – set up an experiment? Still, the consequences at this point were unforeseeable and he wasn’t going to throw his career down the drain. She’d got to him, mentioning his burn scar, as well as noticing his limp. She was quite astute for her age, and for an art student at that. Despite her nerve and commonness, her intelligence had surprised him. No one had stood up to him for a while like she had. Usually his witticisms, intellect or aloofness had intimidated people. People were so easily frightened. Not her. It would be interesting to see what made her tick. It also would be hugely satisfactory to silence her tedious back-chatting sarcasm. Once upon a time people at school teased him relentlessly, earning him a name that stuck. But once he arrived at university, people feared him. They wouldn't stand up to him, and the same continued, until he ended up with her as a housemate. She was naïve. She didn't know the evils and fear that the world possessed. He'd have to make her find out.


	9. Change of 'Art

The brisk, icy cold air, a harsh remembrance of oncoming winter weather, chilled Grace Gilmartin to the bone. Several nights the wind had whistled and howled through the house, rattling the windowpanes. From the warmth of her bed, she could hear rubbish rolling about out the back. Grace spent most of the day alone in the arts centre, drawing bits and pieces that didn’t really amount to anything. Lisa was nowhere to be found despite how many times Grace tried to contact her. Her heart deflated, and she felt uninspired with the absence of Lisa. The only thought that kept her going was that as soon as she finished, she was going to make blueberry muffins later. It was beginning to worry her that art wasn’t interesting her as much anymore. She had drawn countless drawings of the same thing, in different shades and tones. Her routine she kept the same; getting up first thing in the morning, going for a job and coming home for a shower.  
  
She had to keep it up otherwise whatever routine she’d previously installed would fizzle out. Yet the mornings were frostier and there’d already been snow in the past fortnight. Her eyes drifted lazily around the arts centre, looking at the other students' work - all so different, all so individual. _What inspires me?_ She knew she still loved the smell of paint, the mindfulness of listening to her music and being lost in the canvas. She was restless and she _knew_ it. Restlessness was never good – not to someone who regularly used. Talking about her old art pieces with Crane had been strangely therapeutic but simultaneously painful. If his career aspiration were to become a psychiatrist, then she’d say he definitely had the aptitude for it. Deciding she was just procrastinating, Grace walked home, still feeling lonely. Her phone suddenly rumbled in her pocket, startling her as she walked back through the park back home. The sky was darkening swiftly and several lamps were out in the park. All she could see on her right was pure darkness. A cold shudder coursed though her, under her threadbare grey woollen coat.

“Alright?” came a Welsh voice on the other end of the line. Grace felt instantly better.

“God, am I glad to hear from you,” breathed Grace as she walked up and down the gravelly dips in the park.

“Why, what’s up?”

“I’m walking in a scary park with no lighting,” replied Grace.

“Er – why? Look, I’m at Aaron’s, we’re having pre-drinks. There’s a postgrad evening, all posh like…wanna come along?”

“Postgraduate evening?” frowned Grace, beginning to breathe hard as she struggled up the hill home, the backs of her legs throbbing.

“Sure, but what’s this postgrad evening _about_ exactly?” she then asked.

“Dunno, really,” replied Lisa. Grace could hear yelling in the background. “It’s at the pavilion hall in town, so I think it’s something the uni put together. Apparently the dress code is smart. Pfff. Yeah right.” The skies opened as Grace reached her house and was drenched in seconds. Her fingers, bony and trembling tried to find the right key before shoving it into the door, cursing. It was dark inside, which didn't surprise her very much. She wanted to roll her eyes – Crane seemed to like shrouding the house in darkness, setting a scene of mystery and trepidation. Or perhaps save on the electricity bill. 

“Well I’m gonna get ready and have dinner first. See you in a couple of hours,” she said, struggling to get herself through the door one-handed.

“Hurry up, then. We’re getting absolutely lashed here,” came Lisa’s voice amid shouting and laughing in the background of where she was. Checking her watch, just about seeing the hand in the shred of light in the hallway, Grace suddenly heard muffled voices. They were murmuring. The kitchen door, normally propped open, was tightly shut. She dropped her holdall on the floor, which made a loud echo throughout the hallway, and peeled her wet coat off. The voices became louder as she hung her tattered, sodden coat on the end of the bannister. It didn’t feel very likely that Crane would have friends round. She walked towards the kitchen and opened the door seeing four figures chatting in the kitchen. They became quiet as she entered. Crane towered over the three other figures, one of whom was Dina.

“Hello Gracie! How are you?” began Dina. She wore a sleek black dress with her wavy hair hanging down elegantly. In fact, they were all dressed smartly, including Crane for once (or twice) and they were all holding a glass of wine.

“Er, yeah, good thanks. You?” was her reply. The two other guys there looked at her piercingly, who appeared to be around Crane’s age. She now felt undeniably aware of her charcoal coloured hands, her flat wet hair and her general shabbiness – oversized t-shirt, paint-covered jeans and scuffed (yet curiously warm) boots.

“Fine! Are you coming along this evening?” asked Dina. Grace felt horribly aware of their scrutinising eyes, Crane’s especially, although his lacked the disdain of the other two.

“Maybe,” she shrugged. “I’m guessing you are.”

“This is Tom and David, by the way,” Dina said. “We’re all PhD students - same department.” Grace nodded to them, as they barely nodded back.

“What do you study?” asked the one called David.

“I’m not a PhD student,” answered Grace, trying to stall for time. _God, this is the most awkward situation I’ve been in. Ever._

“She’s doing a Masters in Fine Art,” answered Crane for her. _Smug bastard._

“How curious,” drawled the other guy, Tom. “I didn’t know you could actually _do_ a postgrad degree in art. Still, you learn something every day.”

“Do you have a project you’re working on?” asked David.

“I’m just playing around with lots of different ideas right now,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Not that postmodern rubbish I hope? Some art these days is abysmal,” continued Tom. “Conceptual art _indeed_ …I could throw some tomato ketchup at the wall and sell it off to the Tate…. wouldn’t need an art degree for that.” Grace inwardly rolled her eyes as Dina chuckled an awkward kind of laugh.

“Stick to the classics…Turner will always be a masterpiece,” joined in David. Unable to spend a minute more with these officious pricks, Grace pulled a taut smile and turned back round to the door. Dina had already started talking, however.

“So we might see you there, Gracie?” her voice saccharine sweet. Grace drew a deep breath inward.

“Only if I don’t have to talk art with Tom and David again,” she said, having turned back round.  
  
In a spilt second, the atmosphere changed. Dina smiled awkwardly, Tom and David looked slightly affronted and Crane had a smirk on his face. Grace left the room without saying goodbye or with a ‘nice to meet you.’ It hadn’t been very nice to meet with them at all – yet she was slightly surprised Crane surrounded himself with such pretentious types. _Oh wait, maybe it isn’t surprising. He is arrogant after all._ Going to Aaron’s for pre-drinks seemed more appealing than ever and she began the long process of ‘beautifying’ herself for the evening. It was either going to be an inexplicably teeth-grinding experience, or something drunken and ridiculous she wouldn’t remember. After showering, she sat in just her bra and knickers in front of the mirror on the dresser, contemplating her body. The downward curve of her breasts sitting dully in her bra, the rolled slope of her stomach with little white stretch lines. Her unshaved legs and the scar on her arm, the one where she’d contracted an infection. There were many injection sites, ones that had never left a mark. Ankles, in-between toes, the back of her hands. It’d never hurt at first, and they never left a mark. She sometimes stabbed an empty needle into her skin, out of pure self-loathing or something else. It was always depicted in media they left a prominent mark. It wasn’t until she opened her skin to infection that she left a mark, a permanent once life-threatening one at that. She used to pull apart the skin, up against the sink, scouting each part of her skin for a vein. Sometimes it was the leg, usually her thigh. Sometimes it would be her stomach. Sometimes she’d try a vein and it’d burst, leaving a large bruise.

Shaking away the memories, she couldn’t find anything remotely ‘formal’ or ‘party-ish’ for this stupid do. With a falling heart she realised she would have to wear the same thing she did when she did dining with Crane. She sprayed herself with a great abundance of perfume hoping to disguise the fact these clothes were unwashed. She suddenly heard voices in the hallway, combined whiny and deep voices echoing. _Shit. Don’t fancy running into those arseholes again._ She surveyed her limp hair, and then twisted it into a knot at the base of her skull, hoping it was neat enough. After applying lipstick and slipping on a pair of suede kitten heels, she climbed awkwardly out of the window, hanging onto the ledge. Grace shimmied along until she reached the kitchen balcony, and climbed down. She felt something rip, although unsure where. She let herself hang off the railing of the balcony and dropped unspectacularly to the wet grass beneath her. The garden, which belonged to the flat below, was unkempt and its grass was long, brushing against her calves. By the time she reached the street through the garden side-door (left unlocked – typical students) they were all assembled outside, under the streetlights. Dina was smiling and stylish in the amber streetlight, while Crane's eyes seemed to glow in the dark, his dark brow furrowed with eyes unwavering.

“Bollocks,” she muttered. “What the chances…” She heard Tom laugh loudly.

“Do all art students go through the back door?” he scoffed, eyes looking down at her ripped tights. Her temper had spiked now.

“I don’t know; are all psychology students pompous, snot-nosed pricks like you?” she snapped. To her surprise, Crane snorted with amusement. Tom’s face looked blank. Dina attempted to dispel the awkwardness.

“We’re going in my car – do you want a lift Grace?” she asked before Tom could protest.

“I’d rather walk, actually,” Grace replied with lightning fast response. _Or swallow razor blades._

“Grace is fond of walking,” Crane filled in. She felt his eyes on her, more intensely than all of them again.

“Well rain is forecast this evening – or does it help you get in that ‘mode’?” David joked, elbowing Tom, who was still sulking.

“Mode?” snapped Grace. “The mode I’m feeling right now is one that doesn’t favour you. Or one that involves lopping off-”

“Come on, Gracie,” interrupted Dina, tugging her arm a little. “There’s plenty of room, and we’d love to have you along, don’t we boys?”

“Fuck it, I’ll walk,” snapped Tom, and before any of them could protest, he stormed off.

“Wow, if I knew calling him a prick worked I’d have done it _much_ sooner,” murmured Grace, smiling at his retreating form. Dina kept insisting and with Crane’s sharp eye on her and the fact that Tom was walking exactly the same way she was going to go left her with no choice. She clambered into the back with David; she wasn’t sure whom she wanted to sit with less. She’d hoped to sit with Dina in the front. The traffic was notorious on the roads; it was rush hour. Thankfully the rain hadn’t started as predicted. They passed down small streets with many parked cars, up and down hills, stopping and starting because of traffic. Dina made idle chatter in the front, with Crane only ‘hmming’ and David filling the other part of the conversation. Grace’s mobile buzzed and buzzed in her pocket.

 _Lisa: Where r u! R u comin or wht?_ Sighing, she began to tap away a response.

_Grace: Long story. Dina loped me in to coming with them…Sorry mate._

_Lisa: See u soon thn, traitor._

By the time they arrived in the car park, the rain had begun.

“See, good job you came with us,” Dina turned round to smile at Grace.  
  
Grace just pulled a taut smile at her as she watched Dina and David start to walk towards the building. It was a plain, stony building with nothing of the elegant about it. It was square and sharp against the darkened sky with grey stone, like the grey town. Crane, oddly enough, waited for her, even though she hoped he’d walk off with Dina and David. He waited patiently, his gaze burning. She walked beside him silently as they headed up the stairs towards the entrance. Her heels clacked against the gravelly steps, seeing Dina ahead already chatting to a pair of students. Inside Grace was greeted by far more pleasant architecture inside than outside, with a high ceiling, a chandelier hanging from it. They were in a long hall, flanked either side with panelled wood, no paintings framed on the wall. She trod on a woven rug with an intricate pattern; an old rug stepped and dripped on with rainwater for the past fifty years. She stopped to wait although unsure of what. Was it just a dinner? Or was it stand around with cocktails kind of 'do'? Or was it a badly organised last minute do arranged by students? Crane's sudden hand was on the small of her back, gently pushing her towards a large arched wooden door on her left.

"On the left,” he murmured in her ear.  
  
The room they entered was less modest than the hallway, decorated with huge William Turner-like landscape paintings around the circular shaped room. It was fairly packed, with most people crowded at the bar situated at the back of the room. Round buffet tables with small nibbles littered the rest of the space, which had quite visibly been cleared of something. There were some recognisable people from her department, although none of the other art students in her class were present. They probably thought it was a frivolous waste of time, which looked like it was. She saw her lecturer, Heather Leigh, chatting away to a rather frightened-looking man in a drooping bow tie. She then heard her name being called, from the other side of the room, and as she glanced around, noticing Crane hadn’t left her side yet. Over the heads of the various students, both old and young alike, Lisa's long blonde hair appeared out of nowhere as she nudged aside a hunched old man with leather-like skin.

"Alright, mate, how's it goin," she greeted Grace. She had a pint of beer in one hand. She wore a mini skirt that clung to her thin thighs, a slim blue turtleneck and her usual denim jacket. Lisa carried an air of undeniably sexy. Grace suddenly felt horribly scruffy and unlike herself in her worn-again outfit. Lisa turned to observe Crane, her eyes cascading up and down his slim form.

"All right, lanky?" she said. He didn’t blink as he lazily turned his gaze to observe her. Fortunately, Lisa wasn’t fazed by his stare and continued to stare back, almost challenging him. Whatever greeting Grace was going to throw out just dissolved in her mouth. _Ah, I hate introductions._ Luckily Lisa seemed to fill in the awkward silence.

“You must be Grace’s housemate?” she asked, taking a sip of her beer.

“Correct,” he answered. “You are another art student…I presume.”

“Correct,” copied Lisa in a monotone. Dina suddenly appeared beside Crane, having lost David, a champagne glass in her hand. Dina smiled brightly at them, but her critical eyes rolled up and down over Lisa’s less-than-subtle outfit.

"Wow…you look great." Lisa rolled her eyes towards Dina.

"Don’t go handing me phony praises all at once,” replied Lisa sarcastically. Dina's smile dropped as if it’d been dragged down by a sudden weight. Before anyone else could react, a couple of middle-aged men had walked up to them, wine swirling in their glasses.

"Jonathan, I wanted to congratulate you on your last seminar - it was extremely interesting, not to say beneficial," spoke the first, a rather handsome balding man in a suit that didn't quite fit him. Lisa and Grace watched the conversation with curiosity, Lisa passing Grace certain cynical looks from time to time. Crane thanked the man stiffly, his voice hitting a new note of coldness. He wasn't sure where to put his long arms and hands, and awkwardly put them behind his back, making him stand taller than ever.

"Beneficial to those psychology students anyway," began the other man, a shorter counterpart, who was swinging his glass about a little too enthusiastically. “I think you might have scared them off, Crane!"  
  
Crane barked out a stiff laugh. The skin around his eyes didn't crinkle as usual when laughing. Suddenly Grace realised his behaviour exhibited typical signs of social awkwardness. The two men chatted for a little while longer, telling Crane how much they admired his 'new ideas' on psychoanalysis, which paid particular attention to the emotion of fear, how and why it develops. Why, due to learning, does it manifest in few cases as irrational? Crane spoke of how he was particularly intrigued by people who suffered from certain disorders, such as having a low level of cortisol in the blood, or the adrenal glands, which don’t produce sufficient hormones, and how it affects their experience to fear. Grace realised that’s where his interest in chemistry came from – creating a medicine in order to combat these disorders. _Or perhaps worsen them._ She frowned, shaking her head. _What am I thinking?_

“And how is your thesis coming along?” asked the taller man to Dina, who seemed to have recovered.  
  
Dina’s smile returned as she began talking animatedly about her thesis. Lisa had the courage or perhaps rudeness to walk away, leaving Grace to stand there uncomfortably with these high-achievers. She’d no doubt Crane was a brainbox, but it surprised her how much Dina was his counterpart. Dina was delighted to be given permission to talk about herself, and talk she did. Within a few minutes, Grace had found out the girl had won several scholarships that allowed her to study both her previous degrees and this one. She’d interned and gained work experience from several companies…on the list went. She couldn’t help but feel a stab of inadequacy, which was heightened when they turned their attention to her.

“So what are you studying?” asked one of the professors. The only sound Grace could suddenly hear was the thumping of her heart. It was a question that couldn’t be avoided.

“MA fine art,” she said, beginning to feel like she needed a drink. Dina and Crane’s faces remained neutral, unlike the shorter man who’d asked her.

“Ah, intriguing. I didn’t know Feston was particularly renowned for its art department.” No patronising statement could be better underscored - it was the second time she'd heard that in an evening. Grace didn’t say anything in return, feeling a furious blush spread over her cheeks.

“What sort of art are you attempting?” asked the taller man, disapproval clear in his voice.

“Postmodernism,” she blurted out.

“Oh, how very quaint. And what type of postmodernism? Conceptual? Neo-conceptual? Or neo-expressionism?” She became more and more pissed off as she stood there, in the aged fortress of stiff-masculinity, the men swirling their drinks.

“Post-appropriationism,” she lied. Their eyes widened, as they leaned in to hear more.

“Don’t think I’ve heard that before,” said the short man who’d asked her initially.

“Oh it’s very new,” said Grace, raising her voice. She as sure, at this pint, she could convince her way out of this. “At first it was borrowing other images and incorporating it into a larger piece.”

“So what is it now?” grilled the shorter man. If she tilted her head a certain way, she could see Crane’s eyes glinting slightly – with amusement or cold appraisal she wasn’t sure.

“It considers, er - the structures of appropriation, how and where they’re formed and what sort of method is used to create it. It explores appropriation in more detail...such as why do we adopt, um, certain mediums.” Her heart was in her mouth at this point.

“So why do we adopt certain mediums?” asked the taller man with a smirk on his face, looking to Dina and Crane for support. Neither responded. 

“It’s, um, part of...Debord’s model of n-neostructural deconstruction. He s-suggests that our culture has objective value...so appropriating new mediums, er, deconstructs capitalist consumerism,” lied Grace. There was a small silence. Had she stunned them into silence with her utter bullshit? She wanted to giggle. It wasn’t difficult. She’d thought of all the typical jargon she’d read in academic essays and strung them together.

“What is the title of your thesis?” asked the taller man suddenly to Dina. Lisa suddenly put an arm around Grace, bringing her sharply back in reality and pulled her away.

“Utter bellends," she murmured.

“Thanks for saving me,” replied Grace. They joined Lisa’s initial pre-drinking group. They’d all quite obviously been drinking heavily beforehand, for half of them were swaying nosily with beers in their hands.

“Are you getting a drink or what?” asked Lisa. “Some of us smashed already. You’ve gotta catch up, especially if you’re clubbing it after.”  
  
As she waited at the already crowded bar, Grace pulled out her purse. She fingered it while waiting, hearing Lisa, Aaron and the crowd behind her chatting in drunken tones. As she fiddled about, something sealed in plastic fell out. Frowning she picked it up, taking a closer look. It was a pressed flower – what kind of flower it was she couldn’t remember but she’d had it for years. Her mum was a keen gardener when she was younger and taught her how to garden. She’d grow sunflowers and watch them grow taller and taller. Their yellow faces were so bright, so happy. Most of her time was spent outside playing or drawing flowers and insects. She remembered common blues and darters flitting in front of her as she sat by their pond. Closer, Grace saw the aged veins in the dead flower, the leaf shape still carefully preserved. Her heart clenched as she thought of her mother. Her mum who probably wouldn’t talk to her ever again, for the daughter she’d once known was gone. Her thoughts were turned away from this when the bartender finally got to her. Despite the initial stuffy atmosphere she enjoyed the warmth of the room and its pleasantness, as she moved towards the buffet table.

"Highly entertaining," a voice said behind her. She turned round, seeing Crane. He had a glass of what looked like whiskey. Her mouth was full of crisps – nothing better than beer and crisps, as she crunched them hurriedly down. She realised she was terribly hungry.

“Which bit? The dreadful music, the conceited professors or the dreadful music?” she said. 

“The ‘post-appropriationism’ comes high on my list,” he said, smiling that usual somewhat uncanny smile he wore occasionally. Any previous embarrassment or annoyance had dissolved a little from earlier. Perhaps this comment might make her think different of her unusual housemate.

“Was it believable? Probably not,” she said, grabbing another handful of crisps and stuffing them in her mouth. Unwillingly she found her eyes trailing over his face - a crooked nose that looked like it’d been broken once, pock marks on the edge of his jaw ascending upwards and his thin mouth. _Is the beer getting to me already?_

“Not in the slightest,” he said. Her smirk fell. “Yet I do consider myself _far_ more intelligent than most of the clouts in this room.” Oddly enough she felt like this was his way of being nice or funny. It was strangely charming, but she tried to instantly stuff that thought into a crevice. Grace wondered what this postgrad evening was for. Perhaps it was to jeer at one another with noses held up high, she thought. Perhaps it was an introductory thing - for people to get to know each other and talk about their subjects. She didn't really believe that one either.

“Why are we here?” she found herself asking, staring into a blank corner. He took a large sip of his whiskey.

“To gloat,” he replied, his eyes skimming over the crowd. She hadn’t noticed but he was standing quite close to her now.

“Or to get to know each other,” she replied, turning to look at him. The pock marks on his face at a glance looked like they might’ve been a result of acne. But she wasn’t so sure now – his skin looked like it’d been pecked at.

“Well, you’ve yet to tell me of your favourite artist,” he commented.

“Only if you tell me something in return,” she said, looking at him intently. He’d been staring at something she was unsure of, someone beyond the crowd, on the other side of the room. He was momentarily distracted, oddly enough. As she glanced at him she saw there was a pink lumpy rash dotted at the base of his neck. His skin was dry, as if something rough and coarse had continually rubbed against his.

“What would you like to know?” he asked her, turning to look at her now. She felt less intimidated by him than before - although the good fortune of alcohol was now swirling gloriously in her system.

“Did you grow up in Gotham?”

“No,” was his painfully short answer. “Now you.” She felt slightly snubbed.

“Hope Gangloff is my favourite artist,” she answered.

“What kind of art does this artist do?” he asked her.

“Now that’s one question too many,” she said shortly. “You’ve gotta elaborate on yours.”

“Why?” he snapped. She rolled her eyes in front of him, taking another large gulp of her beer, the cheap taste scorching the back of her throat.

“You’re the one who started it,” she said defensively.

 _Oh dear._ She felt like she was going to have a proper conversation with him, but he was close to flushing it down the drain. He didn’t say anything in return, and feeling vaguely irritated she reached towards another snack on the table to quell the feeling. He must’ve done exactly the same, for her hand accidentally brushed with his. His hand felt surprisingly warm, but it took only a fraction of a second to see his hands suffered from severe eczema. He had several small plasters on his fingers and his skin was cracked in several plates. She felt a twinge of sympathy for him. As if he’d been stung, he sharply pulled his hand away. _We’re even then,_ she thought. _He saw my scars, now I’ve seen his._ Crane seemed to have discerned this, and barely heard him mutter a farewell and moved away. She watched him stuff his bony hands in his trouser pockets and walk back to where Dina and the rest were. People began to dance as the evening went on, and soon enough no one noticed that Lisa was hollering and dancing noisily, waving her arms about in windmill fashion. Setting down her beer glass on the nearest table, Grace went to dance with Lisa. She felt her head swirl with the music, suddenly oblivious to the people around her, including her housemate. Lisa didn't move to the music very well, clearly intoxicated. In that moment, Grace felt perpetually cheerful, dancing with this girl who had no qualms about anything. The room was becoming a haze of blur and moving figures with the taste of alcohol thick in the air. It wasn’t long before the influence of Lisa and alcohol caused Grace to become drunk very quickly.

So they ended up going bowling completely pissed. The bowling alley was on the other side of town, in a run-down area. Kebab and fried chicken was in the air as they fell out of the taxi in front of the bowling alley. Several of Lisa’s housemates joined them, including the blonde guy, Cormack, she’d met in the campus café not so long ago. The crowd of them dominated the noise within the bowling alley, causing the other people to roll their eyes in aggravation. Grace seemed to lose her worry, as her world filtered into one of mislaid inhibitions and reckless abandon. She began drunkenly flirting with Lisa’s male housemates, who returned it with the same inebriated behaviour. She began to swing the bowling balls a little too enthusiastically, although still knocking over two of three pins pathetically. She had six pints of cider before she ended up chucking the ball, much to the encouragement of the group, straight into the ceiling, instantly popping a light off. Plaster had fallen straight to the floor, and resulted in a heinous cacophony of laughter from behind her.

They were kicked out and fined within a space of ten minutes. Without thinking about her housemate and the consequences, Grace invited the lot back to her house, the remembrance of her first undergraduate days like sweet sugar on the tip of her tongue. Her increased wildness, libido, the yearning need to use again – the alcohol swamped her. They burst into the house, like hyenas on a feast-searching rampage. The old wooden front door slammed and shuddered as the mass of drunken twenty-somethings stampeded through the house. They burst into the kitchen. A couple of boys pulled out a couple of frozen hamburgers from the freezer. They sniggered and complained at the poor selection of food in there.

“Whoopsie!” said Lisa, who’d gone into Crane’s cupboard and knocked over a bag of coffee. A food fight ensued. The kitchen soon became a place of screaming hysterical laughter, with food being thrown in every direction. Bananas, yoghurt, cereal, sugar, vegetables…whatever was in clear sight was thrown at one another, onto the floor and walls. Grace wasn’t sure, or even aware, of how much was hers or Crane’s. The boys chased the girls round the house, feet stamping like a herd of elephants. She charged round the house with them. One of the boys, Kieran, started pounding on Crane’s door.

“Housekeeping!” he yelled. Grace ended up stumbling into the bathroom desperate for a piss before emitting a drunken scream. Lisa came out from behind the shower curtain, clutching her side in laughter. It seemed to be the last memory of her night, although the night hadn’t yet ended.


	10. Allotments and Alcohol

When Grace woke the next morning, her head burst with pain. It was midday. Her duvet covers were on the floor. A wine bottle was strewn across her messy desktop. A warm male body was next to hers, breathing heavily. He had a tuft of thick hair, and he slept on his stomach with his mouth was open, a thick line of dribble hanging out. She gazed down the length of his body, at his hairy arse and his still-socked feet. His clothes were on the floor – her room was a bombsite and there was residue of egg and flour on the carpet. The remainders of last night were stained on her bedcovers, and she closed her eyes, momentarily hating herself. After wrapping herself in her fluffy dressing down, she picked up his clothes, where a discarded condom fell from, plopping to the floor. Her nose wrinkled. The boy suddenly snored loudly. She knew his name - Ben - and he was one of Lisa’s housemates. She bit her lip, unsure of whether to wake him up. There was a sudden clattering coming from downstairs. The memory befell her abruptly, like a ton of bricks. She and her friends had made an absolute mess of the kitchen – ravished it like a herd of animals. Crane came to her mind.

“Whatever friendship we were going to have has been sabotaged now,” she muttered, looking for her mobile phone. There was a text from Lisa. _R u alive?_ Ignoring a niggling sensation in her stomach, Grace pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. She summoned the strength to nudge the boy with one, bony finger. He stirred a little, breathing out a snore loudly. She winced, and shook his shoulder hard. He started a little, and turned onto his back, showing her a not-so-lovely view of his pale, naked body. She looked away pointedly. She couldn’t tell herself this was not unlike her, because she’d done it several times back during her undergrad days. Yet this time she felt she awkward and cheap. There was something about casual sex that left a bitter aftertaste, especially where alcohol was involved.

“Oh fuck…” he then moaned, sitting up and rubble his eyes. He dressed himself at the speed of light, faster than she’d ever seen.

“You can stay for breakfast?” she said, although she didn’t really mean it.

“Er, thanks, but I’ve gotta go to a lecture,” he replied hurriedly. He was out of the door before she could even say goodbye. Shrugging her shoulders, she paused on the landing, hearing clattering around still. It was lucky she wasn’t feel the nauseating, fatigued pangs of a hangover but a sickly knot formed in her throat as she approached the kitchen. Her housemate was going to be furious. Grace was dying for a cup of tea, however, and as she approached the kitchen door she could hear him scrubbing something fierce. When she opened the door, she saw Crane on the floor, cleaning up what was essentially her mess. The kitchen was quite spotless now.

“Good morning…” she tried. Her voice wobbled. His stare was icy, and he got up from the floor, throwing a dirtied cloth into a filled bucket. There were large circles underneath his eyes and his tatty clothes hung off him limply.

“There is nothing remotely ‘good’ about this morning,” he snapped. _Oh boy, here we go._

“All I can say is, I’m really sorry,” she said quickly. She flicked on the kettle to boil. He cared little for her apology, however.

“It’s taken me an hour and a half to clean up this detestable mess,” he said, stepping forward.

“I honestly don’t remember how or why,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. It was beginning to feel extremely hilarious that this had happened.

“You don’t?” he mocked, standing there with his awkward, lanky posture, as he wasn’t sure what to do with the expanse of his arms and legs.

“It wouldn’t happen if I was sober,” she persisted, nearly laughing.

“Of course it wouldn’t,” he snapped again. “Yet you were inebriated and decided to drag your inebriated self all the way back here with numerous duplicates.”

“Wow, you’re mad. Could’ve just asked me to clean it up, Crane,” she replied, making her tea.

“There won’t be a next time,” he said, through what sounded like gritted teeth. “Because I will have you removed from this house.”

“Well bully for you,” she replied. His face changed from derisive to flatly cold within a spilt second. Somehow being this sarcastic with him felt unwise, maybe a wee-bit risky.

“There was a small window for making yourself a likeable housemate but the limit’s nearly been reached. I doubt there’s much time left for you to tip the scales in-”

“You’ve been a total dickhead since the beginning so I’d say we’re bloody even,” she snapped. Her heart was hammering at this point, although she was unsure as to why. People such as him didn’t normally fluster her. She saw his jaw clench and he then brushed by her, cold fury washing over him. A shudder passed through her as she caught his scent after he’d nearly walked into her. _Eh. You win some, you lose some._ Her impending headache was the most pressing of her worries at this point. She’d worry about him later.

 

* * *

 

There was one thing that Grace remembered from the night previously and that was the pressed flower in her purse. After greeting Lisa and Aaron who were already flicking paint at each other playfully, Grace set up her equipment immediately and went to find a book on wildflowers from the art studio’s reference bookshelf. Lisa hadn’t failed to notice her friend’s sudden motivation.

“What the hell? Suddenly you’re inspired when you’re hungover?” she said.

“Believe me, the hangover is still there,” Grace mumbled, slipping a pair of headphones over her ears. It was fairly quiet in the studio, but being a Wednesday afternoon lectures finished early due to sports. Deciding she’d work better without music, Grace could hear the sudden song of a distant bird. Lisa’s own music was blaringly loud, contrasting against the silent tranquillity of the studio. Grace faintly smiled, wishing she could move in with her. It was probably out of the question now she’d slept with Lisa’s housemate Ben, thinking of the hairy body in her bed this morning. Lisa’s face was bent low with her tongue stuck out, her blonde hair falling onto the messy table. Lisa noticed Grace was watching her, and she looked up, sliding her oversized headphones off.

“Why are we even here?” she murmured.

“My housemate really hates me now,” Grace replied.

“Unlucky…. Kieran was hilarious –you remember him yellin _housekeeping_ at his door?” Grace couldn’t help but laugh, and Lisa shortly joined her. When their lungs were expelled of air they finally stopped.

“I totally forgot to mention I saw a vacancy on the uni’s temp bank,” began Lisa. The temp bank was an ever-changing list of temporary zero hour contract jobs for students.

“What shitty job have they got up this time?” yawned Grace. She was getting into her art, but the hangover made her ache and lethargic.

“It’s a cleaning job but its bloody good pay, Grace. Nine quid an hour, for a couple at night. Just cleanin the labs and shit.” Lisa already had a job at the library’s café – a job that was possibly worse than a simple cleaning job. Grace watched Lisa twist the wire around her finger playfully.

“More money for nights out, yeah?” she smiled.

“Yeah all right…but tell Ben it’s off,” Grace had replied. Lisa responded with a loud laugh. Heather Leigh came over to assess their work. She was looking over her horn-rimmed green glasses at Grace’s work after praising Aaron’s ‘original’ piece.

“Is this your latest project, Grace? Looks a little different to what you were doing before,” she remarked lightly. Lisa began to pack her stuff away, slipping her headphones round her neck. Her face was twisted into a smirk, trying not to splutter with laughter.

“I’ve been inspired to do something different,” replied Grace. “I wasn’t happy doing what I did before.” Leigh was cocking her head to the side, making ‘hm’ sounds as if such a concept was abhorrent to her.

“Well you’ve already made your proposal on a project – which was centered round landscapes? Was it?”

“Er, yes,” said Grace feeling her shoulders sink.

“Although that idea lacked a lot of definition and direction, I think it definitely had potential. Or is this watercolour painting linked to your proposed project?”

“Not really,” replied Grace awkwardly. “I just felt an interest revive.”

“Well remember the art has to have a theme and point to it,” Leigh replied. “You have to explain this idea in your proposal again. Painting wildflowers might be pretty, but it’s not quite trailblazing unless you want to redo the Collins guide to wildflowers.”   
  
With that, Leigh moved onto someone else after she suggested Grace restart her written proposal. With Lisa having decided to leave half way through the session, Grace was left to the solitude of her thoughts. A couple of hours went by and Grace hadn’t done much at all. She didn’t know what to write in her proposal – what could she write? She swore she didn’t have to do this sort of shit at her old university. Then again, her old university was a converted polytechnic and not as ‘prestigious’ or _pompous_ as Feston. Having decided enough was enough, Grace packed up her equipment and trudged over to the temp bank – a large notice board in the main student area – and ripped off an application. She filled it in with scruffy handwriting and shoved it through the letterbox. In desperation she trawled through the library for books to inspire her on a project, taking various smoke breaks and buying a mountain of snacks from the corner shop. She settled back in the art studio trying various other mediums and ideas but to no avail. The studio was quiet. She’d slipped a couple of paracetamol down her throat to calm the dreaded hangover headache.   
  
It was about nine in the evening when the cleaner asked her politely to leave. Stifling a yawn, she walked back to the library to return the books and headed her way home. Walking through the eerily quiet campus, she saw the lights in the chemistry lab were still on, even though everyone else had gone home. Unexplained anxiety made her chest clench in fear – the campus’ old architecture looked forbidding in the dark with very little lamplight. As she passed the labs, grateful for the bright lights that brought relief, she saw Crane, of all people, hunched over one of the benches. _Working late. Again._ He was always working late – it explained the constant rings round his eyes and the overall shabbiness of his look. Deciding to make peace with him (and perhaps quench her curiosity as to what he was doing) she walked into the lab. She was reluctant to admit that perhaps she didn’t want to walk back through the park – alone – in the dark. Her heart began to beat slightly faster, and she wondered if this was a good idea. Her housemate could be aloof, rude and unpredictable. She opened the door, her nose wrinkling at that science-lab smell. Old lab coats that were once white hung up on the wall next to her and she could see various boards and posters littering the rest of the space. She paused outside watching him. His face was scowling in concentration and he wore a lab coat that looked just as tatty as the rest. Various items of equipment were in front of him, as well as books and what looked like mountains of papers and notebooks. He looked up immediately as she walked in, and his face was indescribable. Clearly she’d disturbed him. She saw his jaw tighten.

“What do you want? You’re not supposed to be here,” he scolded her.

“Just wanted to say hi,” she bit out, feeling stupid.

“I’m busy,” he said, looking back down at his papers. She folded her arms defensively, looking round at the place. His writing was erratic and spidery on the page below him. There were several beakers of diluted liquids about him and a Bunsen burner directly in front, as if he’d used it recently.

“I used to hate science lessons…” she remarked, thinking back to school. In fact standing in the lab was giving her particular bad memories. He said nothing, still frantically working at his paper.

“You’re still mad at me, I get it,” she said. There was a still silence, and she refused to leave.

“You’re presumptuous to think that what I say or do revolves around you,” he replied finally, still scribbling away in his notebook.

“Ok…well-”

“If you haven’t got anything further to say then perhaps you can leave me and my research in peace?” he said, glancing back up to glare frostily at her.   
  
The look disturbed her a little. His eyes were strange, almost transparent like glass. His grouchiness caught her off guard, and a tight knot formed in her chest. Feeling like she swallowed her tongue, she turned back and walked out the door without another word. _That was the last straw._ She angrily hitched her bag up onto her shoulder and stormed off. Hot white tears formed in her eyes as she power-walked down the path. _Nothing feels as good anymore. Once you have that first shot, you might as well end it all there and then._ She wished her parents had handled it better. She needed them, now more than ever. Her tears rolled all the way down her cheeks and collected at the base of her chin. Some people would’ve definitely been put off by Jonathan Crane’s general aloofness. Things, however, didn’t always faze Grace. She’d grown up quite quickly, despite her shortcomings. Doubts about her housemate always lingered in the back of her mind, and his words still cut slightly. Yet it wasn’t difficult to see that he was inherently a loner, enjoyed his own (haughty) company and was not well versed in social interactions. Not to say he couldn’t do it, just…She imagined he was the weird, shy kid at school. She felt a sudden hand on her shoulder just before she reached the end of campus and gasped.

“Grace…I-I’m sorry.” She surreptitiously wiped her tears away with the back of her coat sleeve and turned to face him. His chest was heaving at having to run after her, but his face still resembled a stone block. Was this man incapable of feeling anything? If she pinched him hard would he flinch? She wished it were raining so it’d be much harder for him to see her tears. Unfortunately, he seemed to have caught on rather quickly. She didn’t hear him walk away though, which was surprising.

“I didn’t…I-I didn’t mean to-to snap at you,” he said, stumbling over his words. She nearly raised an eyebrow. From sardonically dry to rude to a tongue-tied teenager?

“Keep being mean and you’ll be broke by the end of the year,” she said, anger still in her voice although she’d meant it lightly. Perhaps she owed him an apology.

“Look…I’m sorry you had to clean that mess up this morning,” she sighed. “I can find another house…just, it might take me a while, ok?” Her words had silenced him for now, as he looked at her intently. She wasn’t sure why she’d sounded so defeatist – it wasn’t exactly her.

“Perhaps you can pay for the dinner this time,” he finally said. _Well, that wasn’t exactly ‘yes find another house now’,_ she thought, vaguely relieved.

“Are you almost finished?” she asked. “I’m not really keen on walking through that un-lit park alone.” Again, as she said this, that far-away look glazed over his glassy eyes.

“My research is never just finished,” he replied.

“You need to sleep at some point,” she bit back quickly. Sighing, he turned back with her to walk to the lab. She had to keep up with his long-legged strides.

“Help me for an hour and then I will walk back with you through the ‘terrifying’ dark.”

“Help you? Is that some sort of punishment?” she snorted.

“More like _my_ punishment,” he’d mumbled. After that, they remained silent until they arrived back at the lab, the bright lights throwing both of them into glorious technicolour. He instructed her to put a lab coat on to which she rolled her eyes, and then told her to clean up after him. Feeling put out, she began to pick up the various items – beakers, tubes, pipettes, several petri dishes and flasks – and washed them out in the sink. He was busy scribbling away in his notebook, and by the time she’d finished, he was still completely immersed.

“I thought you study psychology,” she simply stated. His brow furrowed as he looked up at her.

“I originally minored in biochemistry…haven’t I explained this to you before?” She shrugged nonchalantly.

“What you doing?” she asked, playing with a pipette she hadn’t yet cleaned up, squeezing it absent-mindedly.

“Experimenting with compounds,” he replied. She saw the formulas below him on the paper.

“I see,” she said. She wasn’t sure what to ask next – simply because she’d never been scientific. Fortunately, he noticed this and continued, perhaps through his obvious passion.

“I have synthesized some compounds with small variations in structure. Once I have done so I will screen it for possible activity to see how well they bind to an enzyme.”

“Which enzyme would that be?” she asked, feeling confident this question didn’t make her sound like an utter dunce. He smiled thinly at her, as if he sensed her insecurity.

“In the mind – primarily an enzyme that relates to fear. If you inhibit this enzyme for example – you could control fear. All this is conjecture of course,” he said. His voice was strangely high and excited. She raised an eyebrow.

“Why would you want to control fear?” she asked.

“Why not? Does fear not inhabit every minute of our lives? Drive everything that society does and does not? Control the behaviours of people?” he stated.

“I think it’s a bit more complicated than that,” she replied, uneasy.

“Fear is _everywhere_. Marketers from big businesses use the tactics of fear to play on our worries and anxieties. We play into their hands, buying their products in order to quell our anxiety, in the hope we will avoid that fear. They tap into that fear, and provide a solution. You don’t feel the fear until you’ve seen their marketing. It’s the same with media. The power of nightmares…” he said.

“People overcome their fears all the time. The media is purposely inflammatory and likes to rely on people’s stupidity or ignorance. We’re not all like that,” she pointed out.

“Yet all of us have a _personal_ fear of some sort,” he continued. “Aren’t you scared you won’t be good enough for your parents? Scared you won’t find another inspiring topic for your art course? Scared you’ll return to your old…habits?” Her jaw gritted, trying to think of how she could get back at him, jab him where it hurt. He deserved it.

“Afraid your parents…will never accept you and your addictions?”

“Seems to me you want to heighten the fear rather than control it,” she bit out. His playful smirk had faded slightly.

“What makes you think that? Do you take me for a _sadist_ , Grace?”

“The way you talk about it, for a start. You’re obsessed – you were probably one of those kids that liked to frighten birds right?” A small beat of silence ensued.

“What an astute observation for someone so stupid as you,” he said, very coldly. His face was like stone. She then leaned in towards him, close enough she could almost smell the evidence of where he’d shaved that morning. She hoped her gaze was saying; I don’t like you and I’m not remotely scared of you. His eyes briefly flickered in surprise as she leaned in.

“You can fuck _right_ off,” she said in an entirely calm, level manner. His surprise dropped to a bored look, heightening her annoyance. She swiped her hand against a beaker she hadn’t cleaned up for him and it resulted in a sharp, crackle of glass against the counter. His words had hit her where it hurt – again – and only now would useless, regretful anger briefly soothe the pain. She grabbed several pieces of equipment and chucked them on the floor, she dropkicked a Bunsen burner, which landed beautifully in a large lab coat pocket hanging on the other side of the room. Briefly impressed, she smirked, knowing she’d always been better with physical activity at school than science.

“Have fun cleaning up your own shit now,” she said, tearing off her lab coat. She walked out of the lab triumphantly like a smug child at Christmas. 

 

* * *

 

Later that week she hired an allotment and spent time digging up the rich soil of the earth. She planted some flowers for spring, some flowers straight from the pot for now and some vegetable plants. She tried to ignore the various remarks and ‘handy tips’ from age-old pensioners who had less-than ideal ways of ridding their own allotments of that pesky thing called nature – weeds, slugs and the like. She was content to let the weeds grow slightly, charmed by the blue wildflower speedwell growing round her borders. She liked plugging her hands into the beautiful smell of damp soil, occasionally digging up worms, which would attract the attention of a distant robin. It was therapeutic to dig the earth over, to listen to nothing but the wind and the songbirds. Traffic and human noise was distant yet forgettable. It helped her to forget her painful encounter with her housemate the other night. It helped her forget the pain she felt from her parents’ disapproval. It also inspired her, made her think she was good at least _something_. Grace almost wished she’d taken up gardening sooner. She went home deciding it was time find another house and pronto. She desperately hoped he wasn’t in the house, but she’d have to face him some time or another – especially as finding another house during term time wouldn’t be easy. Instead, as she walked home she saw another text from Lisa;

 

_Wana come round? We hav rum._

_  
_ It didn’t a minute to decide. As usual, her, Lisa, Kieran, Aaron and the blonde boy Cormack ventured for a night out. And as usual she got so pissed she couldn’t remember the night before other than the strange dreams she had when she had returned. It happened several times that week; her waking up with no recollection and still drunk as a skunk. Several times she knew she’d invited these friends round, probably not improving her already stinking relationship with Crane. She barely saw him in fact for a week or two – she’d wondered if he’d secretly moved out. To which she really hoped he had.

 

*

 

Thankfully, some pale naked body wasn’t in her bed as she woke up one morning. However, she was on the sofa downstairs in the somewhat creepy, disused sitting room. Dust had settled on everything in the room, and she saw flecks of particles in the light streaming through the ratty curtains. It was unnerving to think she’d spent the morning sleeping in this room. Familiar nausea overwhelmed her and she walked upstairs to the toilet shakily. Her vision was blurry as she struggled to walk towards the bathroom. By the time she reached the toilet it was clear her eyelashes on her right eye were stuck together with something – something gummy and thick. With shaking fingers she peeled it away, having to pull a few eyelashes out. Hissing in pain, she emitted a few curses before her eyesight was clear. She looked at her fingers and saw the brown stain of blood on her fingers. _Jesus Christ._ She glanced over her body, checking it cautiously. Her tights at her feet were ripped to shreds. One shoe was missing – the other was ruined with mud.

 _What the hell happened last night?_ She looked like she’d been through a battlefield. A sudden familiar clenching of her throat muscles and stiffening jaw forced her to throw her head into the toilet bowl. She vomited whatever toxic evil she’d drunk last night before feeling a searing headache as she let her head hang.  _This is the worst hangover I’ve ever had._ Three more times did the vomit bush itself through her gullet. Her eyes watered, struggling to catch her breath. She hadn’t heard the approaching steps behind her, as she wished her mum were there to rub her back and soothe her. She hadn’t closed or locked the door behind her so she heard her housemate walk in, obviously not realising she was there.

“Sorry…I’m gonna be…” she vomited hard into the bowl. The problem was with this sort of hangover was that you literally wondered why you even bothered to dally with alcohol in the first place.

“A little while…” Her vision swam in front of her, and she shivered in the cold bathroom.

“Do I need to call a doctor?” was the voice behind her. He sounded awkward.

_There it is again, that weird bashfulness. That will inevitably be interrupted by his nastiness._

“You ever been hung-over?” she moaned. Her stomach was far from settled as her jaw stiffened again. The back of her throat burned.

“Thankfully not,” was the curt reply. She felt the dark presence disappear from behind, and relieved, she wiped a shaky hand across her clammy forehead. She’d stopped throwing up liquid and was now throwing up nothing but clumps of bile. A few minutes later, she still had half her head in the toilet bowl when she felt a shadow fall over her on the right. Grace looked up at him but only half way; having to crane her neck made her feel nauseous again. Her housemate stooped slightly to hand her a full glass of water. She took it with a shaky hand and gulped it down with difficulty. He took the glass back off her and refilled it as she vomited it all up. Grace ignored his hand that held the freshly refilled glass.

“Come on. Your body is trying to rid itself of the poison,” he said, his voice uncomfortable.

“It’s just making me throw up again,” she replied.

“That’s good – it’s cleansing your system.” She retched once more, hot tears brimming.

“I can’t take throwing up again.” He wasn’t taking no for an answer. Maybe this was his way of apologising after being so horrid to her the other day. It took three glasses of water before she stopped vomiting. By the end, not much of her pride was left.

“Can you go away please,” she said, her voice quiet.

“I need to get ready for class,” his reply was quick.

“I thought you’d moved out.” She turned round, her face grey, and stood up shakily. She saw his eyes flick to whatever damage was on her head.

“You don’t remember what happened?” he asked her, lips pursed. She would have to file away for later the fact that he was in his pyjamas – of the traditional variety. She shook her head.

“You might have concussion – you look like you’ve hit your head badly.”

“You might have a giant arse-hole,” she spoke through gritted teeth. He barely flinched at her insult. “Stop playing this nice guy routine, it’s creeping me out.” She made to brush past him brusquely, which was stupid, because all she remembered after that was the ground coming up close. After that, she woke up back in the bathroom, with him gone.

 

* * *

 

 

“You what?” hollered Lisa on the phone a few days later.

“Got an allotment,” was Grace’s small-mouthed reply.

“Are you seventy or something?”

Grace spent more time on the allotment that week than she had in her house or at university. It wasn’t surprising that she didn’t turn up to lectures when the motivation wasn’t there. She had Heather Leigh’s disapproval floating around in her head. Digging the earth, pulling weeds and planting bulbs seemed to banish some of that. Being out in the fresh air also seemed to cure the latest hangover. She realized she hadn’t been for a run in ages, and already felt whatever sense of togetherness and organisation she had slip away like sand through fingers. Ever since she’d graduated from her last university she told herself that she was strong, she was brave, she was worthy. That she could do this. She worked and ran and slept too hard to be afraid.

One morning, two weeks since she’d last seen her housemate, he showed up on her allotment. It didn’t take long to notice him – it never did due to his beanpole height. She unsure of how to greet him, seeing as they weren’t on good terms and continued to pull the weeds. When she looked up next, he was gone. A few days later, after she had neglected her lectures once more, he passed her by again. Unfortunately, Grace could not avoid him this time, for he walked straight towards her. She wore dirty, old dungarees and a fleece that used to be her mother’s. It would’ve been too awkward to not say hello.

“Hi,” she said, voice clipped. She uprooted a persistent dandelion, disturbing woodlice and small spiders, making them scatter. She put it on a separate dandelion pile.

“You have given up painting for gardening,” he said, watching her.

“Yeah, does that meet your approval?” she said snidely, still digging and digging. As she plunged her trough into the earth she imagined it was him she was stabbing.

“Actually I have something you…might be interested in.” _Is it a bottle of rum,_ she thought. Sighing she stuck her trough into the soil and stood up, taking off her gloves. Her hands smelt of sweat and soil and her back ached from bending down for so long.

She raised her eyebrows at him expectantly, meeting his cold eyes. He had a hardback book in his hands, which he handed to her. Accidentally, the tips of her fingers met his own and a quiver went through her. She was pretty sure he felt the same quiver too. It was a book on wildflowers; ‘Britain’s Wildflowers’ it said, ‘Traditions, superstitions, remedies and literature.’ Astonishment registered on her face, but she tried to keep it neutral.

“U-um…”

“Botany is very interesting,” he interrupted her. “A lot of modern medicine uses plant-derived compounds - I think it is twenty-five percent of modern medicine to be exact. According to the World Health Organisation anyway. Some of it is still-”

“Why?” came out of her mouth. He stopped abruptly and blinked.

“I have many books – I was sorting through them a-and I found it.”

“No you didn’t,” she pointed out.

“You think I just conjured it out of thin air?” he snapped, shuffling his feet somewhat. She gave him a dirty look.

“Doesn’t look like something you would have lying around,” she said. “Besides, I won’t accept it.” He looked highly affronted, pink tingeing his cheeks.

“Why not?” he said. She felt like sighing.

“Do I really have to explain myself? Are you that thick?”

“Don’t insult me,” he said, stepping slightly closer to her. “I’ve far more intelligence than your-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” she said. She shoved the book back into his hands and bent back down, picking her fork up.

“You smashed my lab,” he said. He has a point you know, a little annoying voice said in her head.

“Yeah well I think you deserved it,” she said, holding the fork tightly in her hand. _Never trust me with a fork._

“As well as paying over a hundred pounds for the damage,” he stated. It was her turn to go red.

“I’m sure _you_ could’ve afforded it,” she snapped. She bent back down and shoved her fork so hard into the ground her hands ached with the impact.

“What gives you the impression that I’m wealthy?”

“Dunno. Your poshness, your ridiculous intelligence-”

“I grew up on a farm in rural Georgia,” he snapped angrily, making her jump. “I was one of the poorest kids in my class. Your parents I presume are quite comfortable, aren’t they?”

“Erm…” She felt her cheeks really burn at this point. His penetrating stare was getting harder to ignore. “My dad works in business…. Mum doesn’t work.” He was tightly clutching the book he had picked out for her, and for a brief moment she thought he was going to throw it at her head. She didn’t say anything, however, no matter how guilty she now felt. She saw his jaw bulge with barely contained anger, and he turned away sharply. Grace didn’t watch to see him go. Her eyes brimmed with sudden angry tears.  _You’re an idiot, Grace Gilmartin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, sorry this has taken a while. Life got busy, etc. I'm making a concerted effort to keep up my writing (this story is all written out, but needs editing a lot). Thanks for the views, kudos and comments! <3


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